


The Long, Long Trail

by juliacarmen



Category: Jeeves & Wooster, Jeeves - P. G. Wodehouse
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, M/M, Masturbation, Mildly Dubious Consent, Sickfic, electricity torture, execution planning
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-07
Updated: 2015-01-28
Packaged: 2018-02-24 12:25:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 20,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2581397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/juliacarmen/pseuds/juliacarmen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jeeves and Wooster meet again after a long separation during World War II.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Code Name PUTZER

_Cold. Kalt. Froid. Frío_ … The words blinked in and out of his brain like the electric signs above Times Square. All night as he struggled to sleep under the bench in his cell, the chant flashed ceaselessly in his mind. In the wee hours of the morning the words were preceded by _damn_ , _verdammt_ , _maudite_ , and _maldito_. It was comforting, after a fashion.

They had brought him his morning gruel and water. Soon they would return to take him once again to Generaloberst Lustigs’ office for what the Generaloberst called his ‘morning practice.’ He groaned at an unwelcome memory of Mr Wooster practicing his putting in the sitting room on a sunny August morning. _Freddo. Koude. Cold. Kalt_ …

***

‘Ah, guten Morgen, M. Chambellan,’ Generaloberst Lustigs beamed as his prisoner shuffled in. ‘Please sit.’

Jacques Chambellan nodded politely, sat himself in one of the chairs facing Lustigs’ desk, and placed his bare feet on what looked like a common metal footstool—until the straps were buckled and the wires plugged in.

‘We haf a few new topics to discuss this morning, M. Chambellan,’ Lustigs announced cheerfully. ‘The one I am most curious about, M., concerns this fabulous new celebrity in England called Mr Garbo. Haf you heard of him?’1

Chambellan’s left eyebrow rose the merest fraction of an inch in polite puzzlement. ‘I believe the celebrity to which you are referring is a _Miss_ Garbo, of Swedish birth, though quite popular in Britain. “Garbo” is a pseudonym, of course. The lady’s true name being Greta Lovissss…’ His voice faded to a hiss as Lustigs calmly flicked a switch on his desk. It was only for a moment, but the power of it left Chambellan breathless.

‘No, I am quite sure it is a _Mr_ Garbo who was mentioned.’

‘I’m afraid I don’t know a Mr Garbo,’ Chambellan replied, sounding almost apologetic. ‘I doubt anyone would keep such a conspicuous name, unless he is directly associated with the actresssss—ah!’

It was a small cry of pain, but it made Lustigs smile. The man was annoyingly inscrutable; any reaction was satisfactory. Chambellan coughed, turning his head politely to one side.

‘It is a code name, of course,’ Lustigs said conversationally. ‘You do not know of anyone who would choose such a name? A great admirer of the actress, perhaps?’

Chambellan glanced at the switch, the merest flicker of fear in his eyes. ‘I know of no one who would choose such a nom de—’

He did not scream this time, but the coughing fit afterwards was more explosive.

‘Excuse me,’ he murmured, once he had caught his breath. Lustigs leaned back in his chair, unsure whether to be amused or annoyed by his prisoner’s persistent politeness.

‘Very well,’ the Generaloberst sighed, scribbling on a sheet of paper and tossing it aside. ‘We haf recently heard that the Allies are planning another little ‘operation,’ which they are very excited about. What do you know about Operation Fortitude?’

Chambellan closed his eyes, as if in silent prayer, and Lustigs sighed impatiently. There was a quiescent exhaustion about the spy that usually came upon Lustigs’ prisoners a few days before they were found dead in their cells. But the man had yet to tell him anything useful!

‘I’m afraid Operation Fortitude must have been formulated after I was captured. I know nothing about it.’

This time Lustigs left the switch on until he got the scream he wanted. Chambellan’s head was thrown back, and he gasped like a landed fish for several minutes as he forced his lungs to expand against muscles constricted by the surge. Lustigs waited, fingers drumming idly against his blotting pad. There were a few more questions he wanted to ask before the spy was carried back to his cell.

Chambellan swallowed once or twice. Then he spoke, his eyes still staring at some distant spot on the ceiling. ‘Are you aware, Generaloberst, that residents of a mental asylum have a tendency, after an intense course of electroshock therapy, to lose all memory of who they were before they had been committed?’ His lips curled for a moment before he continued, his voice barely more than a whisper. ‘During each one of your little practices, I lose a few more memories of a happier time.’ He dropped his eyes to meet Lustigs’. ‘I thank you for that.’

Lustigs opened his mouth. But before he could reply there was a sharp rap on his office door. ‘Herein!’

‘Lord Yaxley, Generaloberst,’ Herr Rothbart announced, and Lustigs sighed. The man had a tendency to turn up when he was least expected, even when he had been invited. It was one of his many irritating habits. Lustigs nodded, and his secretary stepped smartly aside.

‘General Ludwig—Lustig, er, Lustigzzz, that is. Sorry, Lusty, old chap! So many Ludwig’s about, I just can’t get the bally name out of my head! Anywho, it’s a jolly good morning, what?’

Lustigs did not answer. He was watching his prisoner with some fascination; while the spy in turn was staring at Lord Yaxley. He bore a look of extreme shock that Lustigs had only seen once before: on the face of a young Jew whom an officer had ordered to shoot his own mother with a derringer pistol. Apparently the dim-witted aristocrat was a more valuable acquaintance than he had thought.

‘Well good heavens!’ Lord Yaxley exclaimed cheerfully when he spotted the man in the chair. If he noticed anything unusual about the man or the chair, he politely refrained from mentioning it.

‘You two appear to know each other,’ Lustigs commented, still watching Chambellan closely.

‘Oh yes, I know the bird! Used to be a v—er, butler in one of those large country piles back in England. Chuffnel Hall, was it, or Rowcester Abbey?’

Chambellan did not answer. His face was deathly pale, and he had not taken a breath since Lord Yaxley was announced. Lustigs waited a moment for his prisoner to faint before rising to properly greet his good friend.

* * *

It was a nightmare. It wasn’t true! He must have fainted during the torture and dreamed that Mr Wooster had been there. He had been thinking of the man far too often. But Mr Wooster was safe in New York!

His heart was racing. It had been too real. He could still smell Mr Wooster’s Zizanie cologne. And hadn’t his employer fretted at the start of the war about Wooster properties in Germany? He had claimed that half his income came from those manors and game reserves. But that had been an exaggeration, surely…

He wished he had looked more closely into Mr Wooster’s finances. His Uncle Willoughby had been little more than a glorified landlord, hiring solicitors to collect rent on the sort of properties that appealed to the nouveau riche. There had been nothing of interest in those transactions, provided Mr Wooster’s income continued to roll in at a steady rate.

But now... He could not think anymore. It was useless to think now. Useless and painful. So he curled himself into a tight ball; and for the first time since he was captured, an interminable age ago, he wept.

* * *

The next morning Lustigs had his prisoner washed, groomed, and dressed in suitable clothes for brunch with the Generaloberst and Lord Yaxley. He immediately regretted his decision when the man glided quietly in. Chambellan looked distinguished, even noble. His grey morning suit seemed to fit him perfectly (though Lustigs knew it was too large).

The Generaloberst had brought the man in to react, not to be reacted to. Yet even Lord Yaxley was taken aback by the man’s presence. Chambellan’s face remained impassive as he greeted his fellow countryman with a polite bow and took a seat at the table. He ate and drank very little, and said nothing at all.

Lustigs bided his time. He had visited his prisoner in the small hours of the morning: the hours when death came most easily to men. He had learned that if he slipped in quietly and kept by the door, he could watch his prisoners unnoticed. Men dying of torture fatigue do not look at doors, they looked within, searching for reassurance that they were still men of worth, who must fight for a life that is rightfully theirs. If Lustigs had plied his skills effectively, they would not find that reassurance. The Generaloberst enjoyed watching them lose this final battle. He would sit for hours on the chilly stone floor, patiently awaiting that most unequivocal surrender: what the British so aptly called _giving up the ghost_.

Chambellan had irritated Lustigs that morning by singing quietly to himself, his voice barely more than a whisper.

Nights are growing very lonely, days are very long.  
I'm a-growing weary only listening for your song.  
Old remembrances are thronging through my memory.  
Thronging till it seems the world is filled with dreams  
Just to call you back to me. 2

He had sung the same song endlessly for hours, until Lustigs felt the words had been etched into his brain with a gramophone needle. The Generaloberst could still hear the words spinning in the back of his mind.

The front line of his mental processes was currently being assaulted by Lord Yaxley’s senseless chatter concerning the splendid parties he’d attended, and the corking coves and bewitching beazels he’d met at them. Lustigs steered the conversation to the war by confiding a rumour one of the aforementioned coves had mentioned ‘about a strikingly valiant operation on the part of our Esteemed Opponents, called Operation Fortitude.’

Lord Yaxley’s face lit up at the mention of it. ‘Oh yes, that’s quite a lark they’re planning on the old home front. A massive double-attack, from what I hear. I hope your boys are ready for it,’ he chattered enthusiastically. ‘If there’s one thing we British are good at, it’s storming the old forts. “Once more onto the breach”, and all that.’

‘M’lord, please!’ Chambellan interjected quietly, giving his fellow countryman the sort of look Lustigs tried to coax out of him every morning. Lord Yaxley gave him a stern glance, as if to a servant who had spoken out of turn.

‘I hope this is not a secret operation,’ said Lustigs with a benign smile. How delicious the look on Chambellan’s face just then! Like a man who had been bitten on the nose by his favourite Schnauzer.

‘I don’t think it’s a secret,’ Lord Yaxley replied brazenly. ‘The old codgers in Whitehall are quite proud of the plan. Fizzy Pfizer was just telling me at dinner the other night how his cousin in the 58th is teaming up with a whole lot of Americans to make a big push up north. —Though why north I can’t imagine,’ he added thoughtfully. ‘Nothing much but tulip fields and whatnot up there.’

Chambellan was now staring at his plate, very close to tears. Lustigs wondered idly how he might provoke them. It was nearly worth all those tedious weeks of heroic silences and clever banter to see Chambellan falling apart at last. _Unravelling at the seams_ , as the British would put it.

‘It is rather wet and muddy up north.’ Lustigs said. ‘I hope your army chooses a dry enough spot to pitch battle. I would not like to lose my men to the common influenza. And I doubt England would wish to lose their finest for no good cause.’

Lord Yaxley nodded, then shook his head. ‘No, I don’t think the Corps have picked a spot yet. One needs a pretty big space to land a massive army, what?’ He laughed lightly and took a bite of pastry.

Lustigs saw Chambellan sag a little in his seat. He looked pale and dry, like old vellum. What a waste of time the man had been! Lustigs had failed to coerce so much as Chambellan’s real name from him. He was unbreakable. At dawn that very morning, as the Generaloberst had stood to leave his cell, Chambellan had stopped singing in mid-stanza and smiled.

‘The most bothersome thing about the psychology of the individual is that it must by definition apply to an _individual_ ,’ the spy had said softly. ‘I have enjoyed being a _unique_ toy of yours, Generaloberst.’ He spoke like a man thanking his paramour for a dalliance.

Lustigs had stepped sharply across the room, his toes clicking to a stop mere inches from Chambellan’s nose. And Chambellan had glanced up at him with the merest inquisitive flick of an eyebrow, the politest of dares. The Generaloberst’s hand had itched for his revolver. But Chambellan was indeed a unique prisoner, and Lustigs wanted him on his feet in broad daylight when the first bullet tore through him.

‘I say, Ludwig, I almost forgot!’ Lord Yaxley bleated. ‘Your secretary mentioned you’d _also_ been invited to the big bash up at old Gröfaz’s—I mean, at the Führer’s palace in Berlin. I’m toddling over on the morrow. Say I give you a lift, what? We could have a pic—’

‘Spandau is on the way to Berlin,’ the Generaloberst interrupted thoughtfully.

‘Eh?’

‘M. Chambellan here has unfortunately been convicted of some minor contravention, and is due for a short stretch _in quod_ , as you British say.’ The spy’s eyes snapped up to meet Lustigs’, and his lips twitched in what was almost a hopeful smile.—Not that Chambellan believed for a moment he would see the inside of a cell in Spandau Prison. But he had asked Herr Rothbart after a particularly lengthy morning practice if his Esteemed Opponents would be kind enough to send his ashes to his family; and the secretary had been unusually keen that the request be granted. Spandau had a proper incinerator for the job. And it had a spacious yard in which Lustigs could fulfil his own desire as well. ‘We could drop him on the way,’ the Generaloberst suggested mildly.

* * *

‘What-ho, General-er-whathaveyou!” Lord Yaxley greeted him brightly the next morning as Lustigs crossed the courtyard to the Englishman’s automobile. His secretary followed, carrying his barefoot prisoner in a full set of shackles, though Chambellan was barely conscious. Lustigs could not resist just one more morning practice; and he had dropped all pretence that the torture was to gather information.

Rothbart lowered the spy into the back seat, and the fancy British car set off with a merry tootle of the horn.

‘I say, old chap, what’s this fellow in for? I mean, what crime did he commit?’ The Englishman asked as he steered the car between a horse-drawn hog-cart and a strikingly old woman on a bicycle (who chided them for kicking up dust as they passed). ‘He didn’t seem the criminal sort when I saw him back home. Just stuffy and stiff and uptight. Mind you, they all look like stuffed frogs to me. It must be something they teach ‘em in Butler School or what have y—’

‘He was caught stealing some old and very valuable silver artefacts, I believe.’ The Generaloberst cut in mildly. ‘I do not personally hold it against him, as the artefacts are rather unsightly. But the law must be upheld, ja?’

‘Quite right, old bean! Why, my Uncle Tom would throw an apoplectic fit, if that’s the word I want (you know, veins throbbing and cheeks turning violet and mauve); anyway, my Uncle Tom...’

Lustigs let the young fool natter on, and stared lazily at the countryside slipping by. He wondered how long Chambellan would remain standing after the first bullet, and what the look on his face would be the instant before the second one drilled through that impressive brain of his.

Behind him the man in question stirred from his exhausted stupor, and was surprised to feel smooth paper under his feet. The Mr Wooster he knew would have as little to do with writing paper as possible. He glanced blearily down to see several sheaves of ivory stationary bound together with large paper clips.

‘Did I mention I’ve found out where the 58th and Co. will be landing, come the date of the battle?’ Lord Yaxley announced, startling Lustigs from his murderous fantasies. ‘It was in a letter from my Aunt Dahlia that arrived this morning! You see, Aunt Dahlia knows a Lord Major Donaldson, or somesuch bird, who’s in the 55th, who are also marching north, and this Donaldson chap had gone down to my Aunt Dahilia’s estate for the amazing crème—’

‘Ah, but you’ve lost me, I’m afraid, my goot friend,’ Lustigs interrupted gently. ‘Where did you say these divisions are landing?’ Behind him, Chambellan quietly lowered his shackles and looked around.

* * *

A single glance told him he was in a bottle-green Singer Nine convertible, which set Lustigs in the left-hand seat. This implied that the Generaloberst’s sidearm would be—aha—between the front seats: a sleek .38 revolver conveniently within his reach, if he could unbutton the safety strap without Lustigs noticing.

‘I was just getting to that, old chap,’ Mr Wooster was saying. ‘Apparently, they’re going to land in Scandinavia, on the widest bally beach they can find. Imagine the sight of them all!’

Chambellan flexed his fingers to steady them, and carefully reached for the revolver.

‘Though it puzzles me why they’d want to be in Scandinavia,’ Mr Wooster continued. ‘I gather you’ve got some men up there as well? A reserve army being nurtured and bolstered by all the hot springs and the healthful fish, no doubt chock-full of phosphorus?’

The .38 slid gracefully from its harness, and flashed in the sunlight as he pressed the barrel-end behind Lustigs’ ear.

‘Oh, I say!’ came a surprised exclamation from the driver’s seat.

‘Keep driving, m’lord!’ Chambellan barked, his eyes fixed on the Generaloberst, who had frozen in his seat. The spy’s fingers tightened on the revolver as he willed himself to pull the trigger. How many triggers had he pulled before? How many men had he killed whom he’d never met, nor even laid eyes upon? Yet this man—he could read this man’s thoughts as if they were his own. And he hated this man more intensely than he had ever loved or hated anyone. But his hand had stiffened like a freeze-dried mutton chop. He could feel Lustigs slowly relaxing. Soon the Generaloberst would chide him amiably, and his prisoner would surrender the revolver.

Chambellan swallowed convulsively. ‘Get out!’ he hissed.

‘What?’

Chambellan’s hand flexed on the revolver. He was absurdly pleased to have surprised the Generaloberst. ‘Open the door, and get out.—Don’t slow down, sir!’

The Generaloberst shoved open the door and tumbled out before Mr Wooster could speed up again. Chambellan turned quickly to look behind him, feeling suddenly in control of the revolver again, and with a burning desire to fire it. But the Generaloberst had rolled into the roadside shrubbery and disappeared from view.

Chambellan sighed and shifted the .38 to his left hand, resting the tip lightly on Mr Wooster’s shoulder. ‘Keep driving, m’lord.’

‘Yes, Jeeves,’ Mr Wooster said quietly.

 

 

 

1 Juan Pujol García, a WWII double agent codenamed GARBO.

2 _The Long, Long Trail_  was a popular ballad during the Great War, in which Jeeves had ‘dabbled’. Usually sung mawkishly. Best sung by June Tabor. Here are a couple of the less awful versions on Youtube:  
<https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1-ihJiOftgM>  
<https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IbHy5qKI6vA>

 

 


	2. Life in a Haystack

Jeeves directed Mr Wooster down the first neglected-looking country lane he saw, which became narrower and narrower until the Singer was juddering across what looked like overgrown pastureland. Eventually they came to a abandoned-looking farm. Jeeves directed Mr Wooster to park the Singer behind the barn.

As the sun touched ground in the west, Jeeves followed his former employer stiffly out of the automobile, the shackles draped over his shoulders. His bare feet were mottled red and blue, and shocks of pain shot up his legs with every step he took. He stumbled when a stone bit into his instep, and Mr Wooster threw out an arm to keep him from falling.

Jeeves flicked a surprised eyebrow at him. They were clearly no longer on the same side of this war. In Mr Wooster’s position Jeeves would have snatched the gun and shot him.

‘Th-there’s a box under the driver’s seat,’ Mr Wooster stammered, ‘with bandages and things.’

Jeeves cocked his head without a word, keeping the revolver trained on Mr Wooster as he returned to the Singer.

There was evidence of cows, goats and pigs in abundance about the farm. But the animals themselves were MIA. There were only a few scrawny chickens to sound the alarm of trespassers; and they were decidedly uninterested in anything that could not be pecked off the ground.

‘Sit down, m’lord, there, by that post,’ Jeeves said quietly, once inside the barn. ‘I apologise for the discomfort this may cause you.’ He shackled Mr Wooster’s feet to the post―perhaps more loosely than was safe.

‘I’m just grateful you don’t shoot me where I sit, Jeeves!’ Mr Wooster replied, with a false cheeriness he usually reserved for his Aunt Agatha.

Jeeves glanced around the barn with a frown. There were piles and bales of hay everywhere, as there should be at that time of year. But none of the hay was from that year’s harvest. ‘It appears that this farm has been abandoned for some time, m’lord,’ he said conversationally, lowering himself onto a bale with a sigh of relief. ‘But the farmer was prosperous, a year or so ago. He could afford the use of a baler.’

‘A―whatsit?’

‘The machine that made these, m’lord. It is a recent invention.’

The chains clinked as Mr Wooster drew his knees up against the evening chill. ‘It’s not “m’lord”, you know, Jeeves. Uncle George is still very much alive and kicking. Aunt Maudie’s got him slimmed down and off the sauce. You wouldn’t know him if you saw him. But you know these German chaps: they think the only Englishmen worth talking to are the ones with funny titles.’ Mr Wooster bounced his chin thoughtfully on his knees. ‘If the farm is abandoned, Jeeves, couldn’t we give the house a dekko? It might be warmer up there than down here tonight.’

Jeeves peered dubiously into the orange glow outside. ‘There may be squatters, sir, as desperate as I not to be discovered. The hay will be warm enough.’ He pressed his hands to his head and frowned. He felt feverish.

After a moment he opened the box Mr Wooster had brought, and began cleaning and bandaging his feet as best he could in the fading light.

Mr Wooster fidgeted uneasily. ‘What did they do to you, Jeeves?’ he whispered, as if hoping he wouldn’t be heard. Jeeves pretended not to hear him. Mr Wooster cleared his throat. ‘There’s a wicker whatsit and some blankets in the boot of the Singer,’ he announced more loudly. ‘A lantern, too, I shouldn’t wonder. Shall I go fetch them hither?’

‘That is very gracious of you, sir,’ Jeeves murmured, completing the bandaging of his feet. ‘But I think I can manage.’ He clenched his teeth on the last word and forced himself to walk back to the Singer. Two small valises and a large hamper had been wedged into the boot, along with two picnic blankets, a small blackout lantern and a box of batteries.

Jeeves gathered the hamper, blankets and lanterns from the boot, and also the papers from the car floor, before returning to the barn. He shut the doors behind him, wincing at the noise they made, and switched on the lantern. Without a word, he draped one of the blankets around Mr Wooster’s shoulders, and spread the picnic things upon the other. The water in the thermos was still hot enough for a decent brew, and Jeeves leafed through the paper as they waited for the tea to steep.

There were a few sheaves of blank stationary bound together with paper clips, and a sheaf of black carbon paper. But the vast majority of the paper, Jeeves was surprised to note, was covered front and back in Mr Wooster’s wide scrawl (a schoolboy trick he used to make his letters seem longer). They were carbon copies of letters addressed to various aunts, cousins and friends. And they appeared to be chronicling his travels in Germany: tours of his estates, society balls, parades...

The letters were written in wittering, almost nonsensical English. Jeeves frowned as he skimmed them. The writing was too eccentric, even for Mr Wooster. He looked up to find the author eyeing him warily.

‘Your tea, sir,’ Jeeves said mildly, proffering a cup and saucer.

They ate in an awkward silence. The only sounds were the clinking of the picnic set, the whistle of the wind through the barn walls, and the jingling of the shackles as Mr Wooster fidgeted.

‘Packing already, are we, Jeeves?’ he quavered as Jeeves cleared away the picnic things.

‘There are likely to be rodents nesting in the hay, sir.’

‘Oh. Gosh!’

* * *

Jeeves woke to the thump of his own heart, which seemed to have migrated to his head and was hammering viciously against his skull. The barn was full of woolly grey light. He glanced toward the bed he had made of bales and loose hay for Mr Wooster, and was only mildly surprised to find it empty. His vision swam for a moment, and he blinked hard to clear it. The keys to the Singer were still in his pocket, and the .38 still in his grasp―though slippery with sweat. He held the revolver closer to his chest, peering into the gloom of the barn.

‘I’m behind you, Jeeves.’

He sat up warily and turned. Mr Wooster was lying half-buried in hay that had been piled between two stacks of bales. ‘It’s warmer here,’ he explained, smiling drowsily at his erstwhile valet.

Jeeves blinked. He had suddenly remembered a morning before the war―like any other morning in that decade of his life―when he had carried the breakfast tray into the master bedroom, and Mr Wooster had smiled just as he was smiling now. The memory was so vivid he could smell the butter on the eggs, and hear the bacon still sizzling on the plate. His stomach churned.

‘There are some awfully pesky creepy-crawlies about, though,’ Mr Wooster continued, scratching the hay out of his hair and clothes. ‘Weevils or whatsists. Arthropoda of some sort.―I say!’ He interrupted himself suddenly, climbing hastily out of the stack. ‘They couldn’t be lice, could they?’

‘Harvest mites are a more common denizen of haystacks, sir.’ Jeeves felt hot and sweaty. There were two blankets tangled around his legs. ‘How did you unlock the shackles?’

Mr Wooster smiled slyly, like the cat that ate the canary. ‘The same way you did, Jeeves.’ He twirled a paper clip in his fingers. ‘I wonder who the smart old bird was who invented these. He should’ve won a medal.’

‘Earlman Wright patented that particular model in the late eighteen seventies,’ Jeeves said before he could stop himself. His vision was beginning to swim again. ‘But why are you still _here_ , sir?’ he asked, resting his pounding head against the wooden post behind him.

Mr Wooster began rootling through the picnic hamper. ‘Oh, ah… My letters, Jeeves. You’re sitting on them.’

‘Are they important, sir?’ Jeeves asked with mock innocence, rubbing his eyes in a vain attempt to focus them.

‘Well... they took me a dashed long time to write!’ Mr Wooster perched himself on the bale beside Jeeves and pressed a teacup of tepid water into his hands. ‘Are you up for a spot of breakfast, old horse?’ He asked, pouring out a few Aspirin from the medical box.

‘Not at the moment, sir.’ Jeeves cast him a half-grateful, half-apologetic glance, and downed the Aspirin.

‘Only it’s not very good for you to be taking those on an empty stomach…’

Jeeves’ lips curled ever so slightly. ‘Did Mrs Fry teach you that, sir?’

He did not hear Mr Wooster’s reply, having fallen suddenly unconscious.

* * *

That day and the following night were very long and puzzling for Jeeves. Sometimes it seemed he had been captured and returned to his freezing cell. Sometimes it seemed he was back in Lustigs’ office, being given a constant low surge of electric heat as the Generaloberst spent gleeful hours persuading his prisoner to beg for mercy. Sometimes it seemed he was napping in the stables at the Titsey School for Girls. 1 He could smell the hay in the loft, and hear the rustling of rats in the corners.

Once he found himself in a drawing room, serving tea to the Generaloberst and Mr Wooster. The seamstress had left her pins in his suit. Mr Wooster was chatting gaily about his new club, the Baker Street Irregulars. 2 He was all of a twitter over the vastness and complexity of his club, and the influence it had over the Events in Europe. Jeeves kept trying to stop Mr Wooster from talking about it―it was a secret organization, after all. But each time he tried, the pins in his suit would spark and surge with electricity.

He was getting quite desperate, when Mr Wooster suddenly turned to him and snapped, ‘Listen to me, Jeeves! It’s not true! Everything I told that man was a ruse or a lie! Everything you think I told him―it’s baloney, Jeeves! Please, wake up!’

It was dark again, but he was not in his cell. He was lying on something prickly, and Mr Wooster was kneeling beside him. A dim light shone from the ground nearby, glinting in Mr Wooster’s eyes, which were rather watery. Jeeves wondered whether he had developed an allergy to the hay.

‘Do you know where you are?’ Mr Wooster quavered. ‘Jeeves? I’m sorry, Jeeves, I should’ve stuck to orders and stayed put in New York.’

‘And this could have ended at last,’ Jeeves murmured, his voice dry and hoarse. ‘He polished it only this morning, as he informed me…’ Jeeves smiled, ever so slightly. ‘Wasn’t it pretty in the sunlight, sir?’

Mr Wooster made a strange sound, like a hen being strangled on a distant farm. But Jeeves did not hear it.

* * *

When next Jeeves woke, it was with the sensation that he had been dowsed in cold water. Gray light and chilly morning air wafted in between chinks in the barn wall. He licked his lips thoughtfully. He was thirsty, and his mouth tasted oddly sweet, sour and bitter. There was a teacup and spoon on a nearby hay-bale, containing an unsightly mixture of chalky white and gooey brown in whitish liquid. The bale also held two empty wine bottles, a half-empty tin of Aspirin, an empty pot of honey, and several mangled slices of lemon from the picnic hamper.

On the ground beside him was a stack of paper, weighted with a revolver, and a pair of maroon brogues. Behind him was a soft, warm someone who groaned when he sat up.

‘Jeeves? It’s the wee hours of the morning…’

‘It will be considerably later once I open the barn doors, sir.’

Mr Wooster sat up and rubbed his eyes. ‘No, Jeeves, you lie down and―Egad! You’re all wet!’

‘I apologise, sir, it is an unavoidable side-effect of a broken fever.’ He allowed Mr Wooster to push him back down onto the hay.

‘Broken—Does this mean you’re all better now?’

‘Yes, sir... Thank you, sir.’ Jeeves added bemusedly, his eyes drifting once again to the mess on the neighbouring hay bale.

Mr Wooster grinned. ‘Then God must be in his heaven and all is right with the world! I’ll go see what I can dig up for breakfast!’

 

 

1 Titsey is in Surrey.

2 Also known as the SOE (Special Operations Executive), a WWII spying organization headquartered in Baker Street.

 


	3. Gherkins und Sauerkraut

Breakfast was literally dug up. Mr Wooster had found Jeeves a pair of ancient Wellingtons that were large enough to accommodate his bandaged feet―though they were filthy, as Mr Wooster hadn’t managed to find any water taps about the place. He assumed there would be water in the farmhouse, but he hadn’t summoned up the nerve to break in. He had encountered no one during his wanderings about the farm, and assured Jeeves the place was as deserted as Selkirk’s island.

Mr Wooster insisted upon carrying the shovel, and upon digging up any vegetation Jeeves pointed out to him (however many roots he bifurcated in the process). When they reached the kitchen door of the farmhouse, they had a blanket bulging with potatoes, onions, parsnips and Swede turnips.

Jeeves could see the house had once been kept by a proud and dedicated Hausfrau. Mr Wooster’s murmur of ‘everything in its place, and there’s always room for lace’ summed up her philosophy. But there was a thick layer of dust over everything.

‘It looks like we’re the first blighters to break in, what?’

‘A serendipitous happenstance, sir.’ Jeeves said, lowering himself onto an old bench by the hearth. Mr Wooster dropped the blanket onto the floor, ignoring the tubers that rolled stealthily away. He stretched with a groan and collapsed on the bench beside Jeeves.

‘What a lark, Jeeves,’ he panted. ‘And not a drop of water in sight, what? Not a drip or a gleam of metal or a protuberance of any—eh? Where are you off to, Jeeves?’

The spy had gathered up a bucket, a bowl and a basket, and was limping out the door with a polite ‘If you will excuse me for a moment, sir.’

Mr Wooster scrambled to his feet followed Jeeves curiously to an unruly hawthorn hedge, along which they walked. He watched bemusedly as Jeeves ran a hand down the protruding branches, gathering the ripest haws into the bowl. Occasionally, Jeeves would dip under the hedge and pull out an egg or three.

They found the farm’s water pump half-hidden by hawthorn branches. Mr Wooster insisted on pumping the water himself. But once the pump had been primed and the bucket filled he keeled over onto the grass and keened as if his very bones were on fire.

Jeeves carried the filled bucket back to the farmhouse, pulled back the shutters from the windows, and fetched their supplies from the barn. He was just setting the newly-cleaned kettle on the stove when Mr Wooster limped into the kitchen and collapsed onto a handy stool.

‘Might I borrow your lighter, sir?’ Jeeves asked, strategically piling charcoal and kindling into the Hausfrau’s ancient stove. He heard a faint splash behind him. ‘Sir, I strongly recommend that you refrain—’

‘Mm, I know this one, Jeeves.’ Mr Wooster interrupted, lowering his teacup. ‘There are little thingummies in well-water that can bring on the trots like nobody’s business. And I say they can do the dratted lindy hop in the old tum if they just let me have a bally drink first. Or two.’ He dipped his cup in the bucket again and drank.

Jeeves pursed his lips and returned to lighting the stove.

‘Ahh,’ Mr Wooster sighed. “Now, how about using the rest of this jolly wet stuff for a bit of a wash?’

‘A most excellent idea, sir.’ Jeeves said, shutting the stove door and gathering up several potatoes, which he dropped into the bucket.

‘Jeeves!’

‘Sir?’ Jeeves lifted a knife from a drawer and eyed it critically. The blade gleamed dully in the light from the window.

‘Er, nothing, Jeeves, carry on.’ Mr Wooster stretched himself out on the bench beside the hearth and lit a cigarette as Jeeves stepped into the larder to inspect the Hausfrau’s arsenal. There were a surprising number of foodstuffs rotting on the shelves.

‘Salt... sugar... vinegar...’ he murmured to himself, ‘oil is rancid... mustard will do…’

‘I wonder what the method of bathing is in these parts,’ he heard from the kitchen, ‘I must say that I’m rather beginning to itch.’

‘I believe there are bathing implements beneath the bench, sir,’ Jeeves replied. ‘Flour, hm. I didn’t know _that_ grows in flour,’ he continued sotto voce.

There was a clattering from the kitchen. ‘I say, Jeeves. Are you absolutely posilute that this―Eugh! Well, the soap’s a gonner,’ Jeeves heard as he knelt to inspect the covered stone crocks on the floor. The first one exuded a strong odour of rotting sülze. ‘I wonder if shaving soap might do at a pinch.’

Jeeves snorted quietly. ‘That will not be necessary, sir. There is an abundance of wild soapwort in these parts. A simple infusion of the plant would serve our cleansing needs well enough. Have you ever tasted―ah―pickled cabbage, sir?’

‘Oh boy, have I! Think what you’re asking, Jeeves,’ came the incredulous reply. ‘I’ve been in this demented country half a sticky year!’

‘Quite... My apologies, sir. The gherkins are also still edible,’ Jeeves stepped out of the larder to find Mr Wooster dubiously inspecting an enamelled tin hip bath.

‘A rather delicate operation, what, keeping all the water in?’

‘I suspect the item was primarily used by the womenfolk, sir.The men will have bathed from the barrel outside, weather permitting.’ He began building a fire in the hearth, a recipe already forming in his mind.

* * *

Sometime later Jeeves shook Mr Wooster gently awake and led him to a clean, lace-free dining table. Together they shovelled their way through a large plateful of diced potatoes, parsnips and turnips, fried with finely chopped gherkins and a touch of mustard, and accompanied by a half-a-dozen eggs scrambled with onions.

When the last morsel had been consumed, Mr Wooster leaned back in his chair with a soft moan and buried his nose in his teacup. He avoided Jeeves’ eye, perhaps suspecting that there would soon be some rather difficult questions forthcoming.

But Jeeves had decided that uncomfortable questions could wait till the morrow. They were both bone-tired, Jeeves having taken advantage of Mr Wooster’s unconsciousness to return to the pump and fill several buckets and pots with water.

‘I heard the youngest Miss Scholfield1has made quite a name for herself on the American wireless. When did she emigrate?’

Mr Wooster’s face lit up like a switchboard. ‘Not a month before her first broadcast, Jeeves. I tell you I’ve seen nothing like it! She had her first gig before she even hopped off the boat! Not that her old mater was pleased: she’d hoped I could wrestle her baby bearcat into some Long Island finishing school. And I wish you’d been there to sort out the hullabaloo her new moniker kicked up...’

The sun was beginning to set by the time they rose from the table, Mr Wooster still chatting away about London and New York and his relatives and members of the Drones Club who had joined His Majesty’s Armed Forces or the SIS. 2 He was so caught up in the years of news and gossip he had to impart that he fell unconsciously into step beside Jeeves: wiping down the table as Jeeves cleared it, and drying the dishes as Jeeves washed them. While Jeeves was setting the water to boil for their baths Mr Wooster spotted a broom against the wall and began sweeping with a practiced ease.

He swept in the manner of Mrs Fry. Mrs Fry had taught him how to do dishes and clean surfaces. She had taught him bandaging and home remedies. She had even taught him her little tricks of trade, such as how to pick locks with paper clips. She had undoubtedly taught him a lifetime of lessons in the space of five years; while in nine Jeeves had merely taught him how to stand still and sit still as he was dressed and shaved. He had not, after all, wanted the man to be intelligent, or capable, or perceptive enough to stop in mid-sentence and prop the broom swiftly against the sideboard and out of sight, eyeing Jeeves as if he was the lit fuse on a barrel of gunpowder.

Jeeves closed his eyes for a moment. His stomach was churning and he could taste bile in the back of his throat. He heard the tap of a few cautious steps, a hoarse whisper of ‘Excuse me, sir!’ And suddenly he was in the outhouse, bolting the door behind him.

 

 

1 The Scholfields: Mr Wooster’s sister’s family, according to _Bertie Changes His Mind_.

2 British Secret Intelligence Service, made up primarily of aristocrats, and constantly at loggerheads with the SOE (which nevertheless also welcomed aristocrats into their ranks).   


	4. Next to Godliness

Somewhere in the back of his mind Jeeves was making note that it was much too cold for a man to be out without a coat. But he had survived worse, and the chill was blissfully numbing. He had no idea how long he had been sitting among the dead tomato vines behind the outhouse, staring blankly at the same patch of hoarfrost. He only knew that if he sat perfectly still, his mind would stop railing at him like a drunken pugilist with a grievance.

He nearly groaned aloud when he heard the crackle of frosty leaves behind him.

There was a hesitant knock on the outhouse door. ‘Jeeves?’ A squeak, a pause, and more crackling. ‘Er, the door was open…’

‘I apologise, sir. It was remiss of me to keep you waiting.’ The words sounded wrong. They should have been accompanied by more bustle. But Jeeves had not moved.

‘No, I, uh... Not a bit, no.’ Mr Wooster dropped a coat gingerly onto Jeeves’ shoulders. It was large even for Jeeves, having been taken from the Generaloberst’s valise. ‘Mind if I join you?’

‘Please do, sir.’ Jeeves replied in that same flat voice. He tugged the coat off and tossed it as far aside as he could.

‘Jeeves!’ Mr Wooster snapped, sounding rather rattled. ‘What has got into you, man?’

‘My apologies, sir. I find the odour of that particular coat unbearable at the moment.’

His face must have shown proof of his words, for Mr Wooster merely said ‘Oh,’ and groaned softly as he sat down.

‘May I inquire as to the date of Mrs Fry’s passing, sir?’ Jeeves asked conversationally, finally looking up.

Mr Wooster sighed and scrubbed at his face. This was apparently the most difficult of the questions he had expected Jeeves to ask. ‘It was on January the twenty-eighth, at three forty-eight in the morning... She was awake to the last, telling me a story about you.’

‘Which story was that, sir?’

‘The Big One, Jeeves. The Epic Adventure of Jeeves and the Black Hand. I’d heard it before, of course. Rather a favourite, don’t you know? I’m… rather hurt you didn’t regal me with the tale yourself, Jeeves.’

Jeeves’ lips twitched. ‘It does not do to reminisce over one’s past mistakes and failures, sir. It will only fill the mind with grief, regret and depression.’ 1

‘O _h_? And _h_ what, pray, are you _h_ up to at the moment, laddie?’ Mr Wooster asked in a passable imitation of the grande dame herself.

‘I am ashamed to say that I am indeed wallowing, sir, in grief, regret and depression. And envy.’ He added after a moment. ‘You were with her in her final years, sir, and I was not.’

There was a pause. Then Mr Wooster shrugged off his own coat and draped it over Jeeves’ shoulders. ‘Well, have a good wallow. There’s a hankie in the pocket. And then, old horse, we really, most certainly and unequiviwhatsit need a wash!’ He hauled himself to his feet with another groan and gave his thigh a meditative scratch. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever worn a suit three days straight before. I think we might have to cut this one off me and toss it in the fire.’

Jeeves took a deep breath, now scented with sweat and hay and faint traces of Mr Wooster’s **Zizanie** cologne. ‘I should gather the soapwort,’ he murmured, at last forcing his limbs to move.

‘Oh, yes. Which one’s that?’

They picked their way back to the house, gathering shrivelled soapwort leaves into the Generaloberst’s coat, and Jeeves finished preparing for their baths. He insisted that Mr Wooster take his first, standing in the hip-bath before a crackling fire, with washcloths, water and soapwort infusion neatly arranged on the bench beside him.

Jeeves was just setting out to wrest the bedrooms into inhabitable shape when a horrified yelp made him spin on his heels so fast he nearly lost his balance. Mr Wooster was tearing off his clothing, uncovering streaks and blooms of angry red bite marks on his skin.

‘Do they itch, sir?’ Jeeves asked, gliding swiftly to the hamper, where a brief riffling through the tea assortment produced several bags of peppermint tea.

‘Of course they bally well itch, Jeeves, what are they?!’

‘You appear to have contracted an unfortunate infestation of pyemotes tritici, sir. It is a type of itch mite that is prevalent in straw and grain.’

‘Oh my sainted aunt! Are they still on me?!’ Mr Wooster wanted to know, twisting this way and that in search of them.

‘I believe so, sir,’ Jeeves replied, returning with a bowl of tea and the washcloths he had set aside for his own bath. ‘Although there are perhaps more in your clothes than upon your person, sir. It is not until they have fallen away that their bite begins to itch.’ He dipped a cloth in the warm soapwort infusion and held it up. ‘If I may, sir? They are easily removed.’

‘Yes, please, Jeeves!’ Mr Wooster was severely agitated. If Jeeves had left him to remove the mites himself, he would undoubtedly have scrubbed too hard and further irritated his skin. This is the reasoning Jeeves would have provided had his motives been questioned.

‘Please hold still, sir.’ He began at the top with Mr Wooster’s face, where the bites were conveniently hidden by his stubble, and continued downward in slow, soothing strokes. He was mildly surprised that Mr Wooster hadn’t noticed the bites before. They were thick where the mites had crawled in under his shirt cuffs and collar. But Mr Wooster, like Jeeves, was a firm believer in the adage that clothes maketh a man; and once dressed he paid little attention to what was under the topmost visible layer of Bertram Wooster.

Mr Wooster had often allowed Jeeves to dress him, shave him, trim his hair, manicure his hands and feet, and even to scrub his back in the tub. But Jeeves had never bathed him; nor had Jeeves seen him completely as God made him for more than a few seconds at a stretch. Mr Wooster remained tense throughout Jeeves’ slow, methodical stroking, his hands clasped firmly over his crotch. Jeeves allowed him to clean that particular apparatus himself, looking politely away as he did so.

Jeeves was well aware that Mr Wooster disliked being touched. He seldom ever was, except by Jeeves. So he kept a respectful foot of distance between them, and kept his eyes on the flannel as he quickly and efficiently washed Mr Wooster from neck to feet. He was not surprised when Mr Wooster began shifting his weight impatiently from foot to foot. He was still rinsing Mr Wooster’s calves when he felt the swish of a bathrobe over his head.

‘A moment, please, sir. I have made an infusion of peppermint tea, which is known for its antipruritic properties. It will help to alleviate the itching.’

Mr Wooster cleared his throat. ‘Will it? How extraordinary! Well, bung it on the table, er, I’ll only be a moment.’ He grabbed his nightshirt and made for the nearest bedroom.

Jeeves coughed politely. ‘I’m afraid the antipruritic effects of peppermint only manifest when the infusion is applied directly to the skin, sir.’

Mr Wooster groaned impatiently. But it was a moment before he turned around.

In that moment an electric shiver zipped across Jeeves’ little grey cells, and he wondered if throughout the nine years he had been in the man’s service he had misinterpreted Mr Wooster’s reaction to touch. He removed the robe as if in a daze. Mr Wooster’s hands flew at once to cover his intimates.

Jeeves decided on the spot to test his hypothesis. There was a war on, after all, no time to waste.

 

 

1 Misquote of Swami Sivananda.

 


	5. Beating the Bishop

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning: This chapter is PWP. If this is not your thing, you can skip it and not miss any plot a-tall. This is basically the chapter in which Jeeves and Wooster take baths and go to to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your comments and kudos! :) And I apologize for the unstable posting schedule. I was initially just reposting a story I had written 4 years ago. But then I started rewriting bits of it...

‘I would not advise using your nails to relieve the itching, sir, as they would tear the epidermis and the resulting infection would take a long time to heal,’ he said conversationally as he applied a tea-soaked flannel to Mr Wooster’s back, his hands lingering on the pretext of allowing the tea to seep into the skin.

As Jeeves slowly, methodically stroked down Mr Wooster's back, he noticed Mr Wooster's breathing become more laboured.  Goose pimples rose on his skin. He began to fidget like a boy in need of the loo, his hands clenched painfully over his crotch. 

When Jeeves finished his backside and stepped around to his front, he noticed that Mr Wooster's lips were pressed into a very thin line, sweat glistened on his brow and upper lip, and he looked anywhere but at Jeeves. 

When the washcloth rubbed gently over a nipple, Jeeves heard Mr Wooster swallow a moan. He pretend not to notice, but paid particular attention to a bite just to the left of the other nipple.

'I fear this bite may become infected, sir,' he murmured, rubbing the cloth repeatedly over the bite, and incidentally over the nipple beside it. Mr Wooster shivered and gasped, then clamped his mouth firmly shut again.

Jeeves moved slowly down his belly, which was soft and lily-white like a woman's, dappled with a few cherry-red bite marks. When his path was barred by the tense bow of Mr Wooster's arms, he gently coaxed one of said arms away so he could daub it with tea. He pretended to ignore the way Mr Wooster's fingertips glistened; though the man himself noticed only a moment later and clenched his fist, swallowing painfully.

Jeeves continued with Mr Wooster's other arm, which was stiff as a board, his fist clenched before Jeeves could catch another tantalizing glimpse of wet fingertips.

Jeeves glanced again at Mr Wooster's face. His cheeks were aflame and his lips still tightly compressed. His nostrils flared as he breathed heavily. He was staring into the fire, clearly wishing desperately to be anywhere but here.  
The next body parts that required efficient bathing in peppermint were Mr Wooster's sides. Jeeves was a philosophical man. But he did not consider himself to be a righteous or a moral man. So while he had politely stood to either side of Mr Wooster as he had washed the willowy curves of Mr Wooster's waist, he now stepped directly into the man's breathing space, running the wet flannel slowly up and down Mr Wooster's side as the man huffed into his shoulder.

Unexpectedly, Jeeves could feel him relaxing, leaning into the strokes. Jeeves did not step back as he switched sides, his nose nearly brushing Mr Wooster's eyebrows as he swayed from one side to the other.

Mr Wooster shifted as well, his chin following the line of Jeeves' clavicles, and ending nearly pressed into the curve of Jeeves' other shoulder. Jeeves felt a sigh waft across the skin of his neck as he slowly stroked Mr Wooster's other side.

Jeeves stepped back reluctantly, and knelt to bathe Mr Wooster's thighs.

During the previous perfunctory wash, he had knelt on one knee, with the respectable foot of distance between himself and the enamel foot bath. Now he knelt with his knees spread apart, just touching the lip of the bath, his nose a mere inch from Mr Wooster's clenched hands.

He looked up, and Mr Wooster shivered. He was now staring glassy-eyed down at Jeeves, his mouth hanging open. Jeeves lifted the flannel from the bowl again, and began stroking down Mr Wooster's thighs, much more slowly than he had during the previous wash. He kept his eyes on the marble-white skin before him, biting back the urge to kiss it, to suckle it until dark bruises formed under his lips.

Mr Wooster shivered again, and again, and Jeeves made note of where his hands were each time, although he suspected one or two of the shivers had been induced by his breath on Mr Wooster's skin.

Jeeves made his slow way down Mr Wooster's mite-bitten calves, glancing up every so often to the flushed face staring down at him like a goldfish frozen in mid-gasp.

He lifted Mr Wooster's foot in his hand, and rather than holding it politely by the heel, he flattened his palm against the base, rubbing his thumb across the arch and spreading the cloth in his other hand across the top so that his fingers and thumb stroked down Mr Wooster' ankles.

Mr Wooster shuddered. And kept shuddering, yanking his foot out of Jeeves grasp as he nearly toppled over. Jeeves reached up without thinking to grab his hands as he flailed. Something wet streaked across his cheek just as a knee hit him hard in the solar plexus.

Mr Wooster's hands were slippery, but Jeeves managed to maintain his grip as Mr Wooster finally put his foot down and straightened his other knee. He looked down at Jeeves, his face morphing into horror (though Jeeves was smugly certain that it wasn't horror that made his hands shake in Jeeves').

First things first, Jeeves thought pragmatically. He released one of Mr Wooster's hands and reached for the flannel, swiping it casually across his cheek (and hair), before rinsing it again in the bowl of tea, and handing it to Mr Wooster.

He stood up as gracefully as he could, released Mr Wooster's other hand, and washed his hands in a nearby bowl of soapwort infusion.

Mr Wooster stood like a statue, still staring at Jeeves as his robe was draped around his shoulders.

'Your pajamas are on the bench, sir,' Jeeves reminded him, poker-faced as he gathered up the tea and a few other bowls. 'I will just clear up these implements, and see what can be done about the bedrooms.'

***

Making the master bed had been a challenge. Mr Wooster had sidled in a few minutes after Jeeves, and had insisted upon helping, covering himself once again from head to foot in dust and honest sweat. They argued all the while over who should sleep in the master bed and who should take the two child-sized ones in the adjoining room. Mr Wooster kept insisting that Jeeves take the master bed. Jeeves would wait until he ran out of breath, and politely decline. In the end the matter was settled when the two child-sized beds collapsed, the frames being riddled with woodworm.

Mr Wooster shaved at the table as Jeeves prepared for his own bath. Jeeves’ stubble was several days long, and two white bands dipped from the corners of his mouth, complimenting the flares of white at his temples. Mr Wooster opined that they made him look ‘rather jolly, don’t you know, like someone’s bachelor uncle—which you are, now that I think of it.’

Jeeves had noticed a tendril of white by each ear the day after he had set sail from New York and Mr Wooster. He had since measured the months and years of the war by the spread of those two white flares.

Trying to ignore Mr Wooster’s presence at the table, Jeeves set one of the farmer’s moth-eaten night-shirts on the bench and proceeded to peel off his grimy, sweat-stained clothes and bandages.

With the first touch of the warm, wet cloth to his skin, Jeeves felt as if a tight spring was uncoiling inside him. He sighed and ran the cloth slowly up and down his chest, watching it stroke away the sweat of fear, pain and fever. Droplets of warm water seeped from the cloth and slid errantly down to puddle on the enamel at his feet. He became aware that Mr Wooster was watching him in the reflection of his shaving mirror, mouth agape and razor forgotten in mid-air. 

It still astounded him that throughout his nine years in Mr Wooster’s service, it had never once occurred to him that Mr Wooster might bat for the other team, as the Americans  put it—or  even for the home team, come to that. He had always thought of his employer as asexual; and he had often felt like an old lech taking advantage of an innocent child when he allowed his hands to linger upon Mr Wooster’s willowy frame.

Jeeves decided not to hide his growing arousal, but to encourage it in the lazy way of a man who believed himself to be alone behind a locked door.

There was a muffled ‘ouch!’ behind him. Then he heard Mr Wooster scramble to his feet and all but run from the room with a hasty. ‘WellgoodnightJeeves!’

‘Goodnight, sir,’ Jeeves said placidly. He smiled to himself as he felt Mr Wooster’s eyes on him from the dark master bedroom. Mr Wooster had unwittingly placed himself at a better vantage point.

Jeeves continued with his slow bath, staring pensively into the fire. He would pause occasionally to give his prick a few encouraging strokes, or to roll his stones in his hand.

When he had rubbed away the sweat and dust from his skin, he took up the Generaloberst’s razor, comb and clippers (all of which he had boiled earlier), and his shaving soap (an unused cake, he had been pleased to discover), and proceeded to shave the whiskers off his face, trim the hair at his oxters, and the bush around his cock — keeping said appendage stiff all the while. It had been a long time since his body had given him more than cold and hunger and pain. The warmth and pleasure it was giving him now was intoxicating. He made it last. 

Once shaved and trimmed, he knelt over the foot bath and washed his hair. The water had cooled, and felt good upon his heat-soaked skin.

When he had finished, he sat back on his heels, smoothed back his hair, and began to beat the bishop in earnest. The feel of Mr Wooster’s eyes upon him made him shiver with excitement, and he soon climaxed with a long, broken sigh.

He took his time drying, dressing, and cleaning his teeth with the Generaloberst’s toothbrush (also new). He washed the bowls, cloths, and other implements and put all away. Then he banked the fire and made his way to the master bedroom, where he found Mr Wooster lying apparently asleep on his front with is face to the wall.

Jeeves slid between the moth-eaten sheets with a sigh and was soon fast asleep.


	6. Operation Nippy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Glossary
> 
> Baker Street: Headquarters of the SOE (Special Operations Executive).  
> Foots: Members of a spy-catching team.  
> L pills: L for Lethal. The cyanide pills were often disguised as buttons.  
> Poem-codes: The four things the ideal SOE operative should be familiar with are crossword puzzles, English verse, popular slang, and English music hall songs. These were essential for memorizing the poem-codes operatives used to transmit messages over insecure channels.  
> Rolled up: Arrested.  
> Safe word: Spies in the SOE were assigned two words, one word indicating that their information was accurate to their knowledge, and the other word warning that they had been captured and were being forced to report false information.

It was Jacques Chambellan’s evening off, and as usual he was in the Brauhaus playing Kaiserspiel with a few of the locals. They liked him because he was Swiss and therefore courteous, and also because he couldn’t seem to get the hang of Kaiserspiel, old game though it was (and played in Switzerland as well). The onlookers laughed as his team lost yet another game, and his partner threw up his hands with a good-natured oath.

Chambellan glanced toward the bar, thinking about ordering his final beer for the night, when one of the drinkers caught his eye. The man held his gaze for longer than was customary, a small, knowing smile playing about his lips. It was not a friendly smile, and this man was not a regular at the Brauhaus.

Fear crackled down Chambellan’s spine, but he turned back to his table. ‘Oh, my Groschen! My hard-earned Groschen!’ he lamented jokingly as the winning team divided their spoils. The group around the table laughed again and offered their condolences. And as Chambellan tipped his hat to them he noticed another two strange men watching him more avidly than the regulars did. His nerves began to thrum with fear, and bile rose into his throat. His cover was blown. How was this possible?

For nearly five years Chambellan had worked for the wealthiest households in Berlin, his prodigious skill and the Swiss neutrality ensuring his welcome. It had become a popular sport among the upper classes to ‘steal’ him from his employers, and hefty bets were placed as to which household would get him next. Not many households could afford him now. But at a dinner party a fortnight ago he had finally come to the Führer’s attention. He had joined the man’s household as under-butler only a few days before.

He was so close! But now, he knew, he was also finished. The cold, knowing eyes of his watchers had told him so.

Chambellan bid his drinking companions a cordial goodnight and stepped out into the still-bustling street. He knew he would not be permitted to return to the Führer’s palace. So he ambled aimlessly along the more populated streets, apparently enjoying the warm summer evening.

He tried a few feints to shake off the watcher team behind him, darting into large shops or restaurants and leaving by another exit. He attempted to disappear in the flow of pedestrian traffic, casually but quickly combing his hair with a small brush that turned it grey, and discarding his Homburg for a felt Fedora he kept folded in his coat. But the foots remained in lockstep with him, stalking him with the ease of seasoned hunters, waiting patiently for their quarry to turn into a quiet side street, where they would take him down with the maximum of speed and minimum of fuss.

He stopped for a moment at a busy intersection and nonchalantly lit a gasper. He knew he could not escape, but he could warn Baker Street of his failure. He turned into a well-plotted route that would eventually lead him to a shabby studio flat. The route twisted and wound haphazardly across Berlin, and would have shaken off most followers in mere minutes. But he was nearly at the end of it and beginning to panic before he found himself finally in the black.

He made a beeline for the studio. It held nothing but a bed, a chair, and a desk with a telephone on it. He dialled a number and waited for the relay system to connect him with Lt. Col. R. Thornley’s office in London. One of Thornley’s girls answered, and Chambellan gave her his safe word, followed by all the most important information he had gathered since his previous communication. He spoke quickly, encoding on the spot, picking phrases from Mr Wooster’s favourite music hall songs, as he found them easiest to remember under pressure. He prayed he was not making any mistakes, though the girl did not interrupt him or ask him to repeat anything. He could hear Mr Wooster’s voice and the tinkling of a piano in the back of his mind as he spoke.

_If driving fast cars you like, if low bars you like, if old hymns you like, if bare limbs you like, if Mae West you like, or me undressed you like, why, nobody will oppose!_

He paused for breath, and heard the scratching of a pick in the lock. The foots had found him. Panic surged through him, and he suddenly forgot the lyrics to every song he knew except the one Mr Wooster was singing gaily in his head. But he needed no further encoding to finish his message.

‘Nippy compromised. I repeat, Nippy compromised.’ He raised his sleeve to his mouth, and heard a door hinge creak behind him. ‘Putzer rolled up.’Hands grabbed him just as the L pill crunched between his teeth,and the phone clattered off the desk.

Someone swore in German. Fingers and the lip of a canteen were thrust into his mouth. The canteen had a long neck. They forced it in deep and ipecac flooded his throat. They did not remove it until he had vomited violently.

Then they threw him to the floor and one of them knelt on his legs, pinning his arms high behind his back. He was surprised when a cloth drenched in chloroform was pressed to his face. Surely if they wanted him alive they wouldn’t compound chloroform and ipecac with the trace cyanide and alcohol still in his system?

Chambellan smiled and inhaled deeply. Unlike these goons he was well aware of the thin stretch between the effective dose of chloroform and the lethal dose—a stretch made even thinner by the cocktail in his bloodstream. He could still hear Mr Wooster’s bubbly music hall singing in the back of his mind.

_If saying your prayers you like, if green pears you like, if old chairs you like, if back stairs you like, if love affairs you like, with young bears you like, why, nobody will oppose!_

Long minutes of determined breathing and deceptive struggling passed before he fainted, but he failed to bridge that thin stretch between unconsciousness and death. He woke in a windowless cell, stripped to the skin and with his head shaved. His head was also pounding, his gut churning, and he had no sooner opened his eyes than he was violently dry-heaving.

* * *

‘Jeeves? You’re feverish again.’

The headache was not nearly as bad as the one he had recalled in his dream. Jeeves swallowed convulsively, determined not to vomit. ‘I apologise for disturbing your sleep, sir.’

‘Tish, Jeeves. Here.’ Mr Wooster held out some Aspirin and a glass of water. ‘I’ll wind up killing you with this stuff. Do you know how many you’ve swallowed these past couple days?’

He blew out the candle and hurried round to the other side of the bed, sliding under the covers with a shiver. ‘You were having another nightmare. Was it Lustigs again?’

‘No, sir. It was... only a memory.’

‘A memory? Egad, Jeeves, what have you been up to all these years?’

Jeeves was silent. He could tell it was a question Mr Wooster had been burning to ask him.

‘Five years that I haven’t heard hide nor hair of you,’ Mr Wooster muttered petulantly. ‘Doesn’t an old friend deserve an explanation?’

Jeeves remained silent.

‘I... I thought you’d copped it, you know, like Ooffy and Packy,’ Mr Wooster’s voice trembled, ‘and Tuppy and Barmy and Claude...’ his voice cracked and he stopped. Jeeves reached out, and his hand connected with an elbow.

‘I imagined it,’ Mr Wooster whispered, almost accusingly, ‘you being captured and tortured and executed—dozens of times before I even left New York.’

Jeeves winced. He could recall a time when Mr Wooster’s worst thoughts revolved around undesirable engagements and angry aunts. Now he thought of friends and family killed in battle, of torture and executions.

‘But it seems you had an even worse time of it than I could have imagined.’ Mr Wooster continued. ‘And the rotter was going to off you, wasn’t he, with that gun in the kitchen? You said in your fever that he had told you so as he polished the damned thing. He _gloated_!’

Jeeves said nothing. Mr Wooster did not know it, but the .38 was no longer in the kitchen. It was in the drawer of the night-table beside him.

Mr Wooster wriggled a little closer to him. ‘Please, Jeeves, tell me where you’ve been all these years, and what you’ve done. What have I missed?’

Jeeves smiled in the dark. ‘If you were a double-agent, sir, you would be saying precisely the words to induce me into telling you everything. But I’m ashamed to say the Germans already know everything I could tell them.’

Mr Wooster sat up sharply. ‘Jeeves! How could you still think that I—’

‘I was betrayed, sir,’ Jeeves interrupted quietly, ‘by a man I had known intimately for more than twenty years; a man who was instrumental in advancing my career. He was, in fact, the man who had directed me to your doorstep when you were in need of a new valet.’

‘You mean one of the fellows at the agency? Which one?’

Jeeves did not reply. Mr Wooster slid pensively back under the covers, now so close that Jeeves could feel a faint breath on his shoulder, where the farmer's overlarge nightshirt had gaped. He sighed.

‘My mission was called Operation Nippy, sir, after the Nippies in the Lyons Teashops,’ he said softly. ‘The plan was to poison the Führer quietly in his own home.1 I was the inside man, the intended assassin. But I was caught because a man I trusted betrayed me to the Main Security Office.’

‘You were the intended assassin,’ Bertie echoed softly. ‘How did you plan to escape after you had killed him?’

Jeeves did not reply.

‘I see. So five years ago you dropped me off at your mother’s like an old piece of luggage and went off to die.’

Jeeves opened his mouth, and closed it again. He had indeed cajoled Bertie into relocating to Mrs Fry’s spacious Southampton home. Bertie had at the time made New York too hot to hold him; and Jeeves had discreetly ensured he would not be permitted by any Royal military body to join the burgeoning war effort. He had told Bertie the arrangement was as much to keep his mother out of trouble as it was to provide Bertie with the excellent service to which he was accustomed. Fortunately Bertie had been charmed by Mrs Fry’s cheerful good nature—and enchanted by her tales of adventure, for Mrs Fry had lived her life to the fullest (leaving her children to fend for themselves).

Bertie fumed silently for a few minutes, but then his curiosity got the better of him. ‘How were you captured?’

‘Spycatchers crept up behind me and dosed me with chloroform, sir.’

‘Good heavens! Like the heroine in those old Sexton Blake novels?’

‘No, sir,’ Jeeves murmured with a hint of reproach.

 

 

1 Several plans to poison Hitler were hatched during WWII, but none were carried out because of the necessity for an inside man in one of Hitler’s households.


	7. Bertram Wooster, Gentleman, Spy

The following morning, Jeeves expected Mr Wooster to stare at him like a monster that had grown two heads, or perhaps to talk himself into falling in love with some unsuitable young lady he had met the week before. Jeeves knew his bath-time shenanigans would look very different in the cold light of day.

But Mr Wooster smiled at him the way he always used to in the mornings, a smile Jeeves attributed to the tea he was holding.

Mr Wooster sat with Jeeves as he made breakfast, careful not to lift a finger to help (though he was following Jeeves' movements with a much more practiced eye than he would have five years ago). And Jeeves decided that he needed more information concerning those intervening five years.

So as Mr Wooster was enjoying a quiet after-breakfast cigarette, Jeeves set two sheaves of paper smartly on the table. One was the carbon copies of Mr Wooster’s letters, and the other was the blank stationary Jeeves had also found in the Singer. He placed a sheet of the blank paper before Mr Wooster. ‘Write down the key, please, sir.’

‘I’m afraid I don’t dig you, old chap. What key?’ His expression was quite convincingly nonplussed. Jeeves arched his brow a threatening eighth of an inch and waited.

Mr Wooster blinked, his own brow still convincingly furrowed. ‘Jeeves? Are you alright? You have the key to the old Singer, you know. It’s in your pocket.’

‘Why did you write these letters in duplicate, sir?’

‘Well, Jeeves, you know my cousin Angela? She got a pippin of an idea. She said—well, that is to say she wrote, really, in a letter—she said, why didn’t I turn these letters into a book. You know, _Deutschland in the Summertime: Travels of a British Socialite in Germany, May to November 1943,_ or somesuch title.’ He turned and tossed his cigarette end into the fire, wincing as sore muscles protested.

Jeeves’ left eyebrow rose another sixteenth of an inch as Mr Wooster recited the proposed title. ‘Did you have plans to depart for England in the near future, sir?’

‘Oh, yes. I was leaving yesterday, as a matter o’ fact. I’d planned to take it easy in Berlin for a few days, grab a few souvenirs and whatnot. But that perisher Lustigs wired me an invitation to visit his estate before I left, for its historical interest or what have you. I v-very nearly didn’t go.’ Mr Wooster swallowed convulsively.

Jeeves studied him in silence for a few moments. Then he repeated patiently, as if he could continue all day, ‘Please write down the key I may use to decode these letters, sir.’

Mr Wooster’s mouth fell open in an admirable rendition of incomprehension and alarm, ‘I think you might still have a bit of fever, old bean.’ He groaned as he got to his feet. ‘Let’s get you some water. No, tea. Yes, tea’s the ticket.’

Jeeves felt piqued. Mr Wooster had no business developing a talent for acting after thirty-odd years of being as transparent as a window and as intelligent as a trapped bee. However, ut quimus, aiunt, quando ut volumnus, non licet. 1 Lifting the revolver from the bread table, Jeeves removed all the bullets save one, and spun the cylinder.

He was absurdly pleased to see Mr Wooster’s mouth fall open in shock.

‘Jeeves, you wouldn’t!’

‘I have given you my story, sir. Now you must give me yours. You may be in possession of information that could assist us in returning home.’

‘B-b-but it’s against the rules to share codes, Jeeves, you know that! Vera would flay me alive!’

The cylinder stopped spinning with a final click. Jeeves aimed the revolver at Mr Wooster's foot, which was helpfully shod in an offensive maroon brogue, and waited.

‘Oh, come now, Jeeves.’ Mr Wooster quavered. ‘Where’s that old feudal spirit, eh?’

Jeeves pulled back the hammer. ‘Perhaps it has gone the way of the old Bertie Wooster, sir.’

There was a long silence during which neither of them moved. Then Mr Wooster took a deep breath, as if he had suddenly remembered how to breathe. ‘No, you wouldn’t.’ He said again, quietly and with conviction. ‘You’re condemned from your own lips, old bean. You want us both to return home.’

Jeeves uncocked the hammer with a rueful sigh and returned the .38 to the bread table. ‘No,’ he agreed. ‘I will not fire. I have learned the ways of this revolver more intimately than those of any other weapon. It so happens that the bullet is currently aligned with the barrel.’ He returned to the dining table and absently began folding a sheet of stationary.

Mr Wooster checked the revolver, and gave his opinion of the Generaloberst using words that had certainly not been in his vocabulary before the war. He watched as Jeeves continued folding, unfolding and refolding the paper, and laughed when Jeeves set a small paper rabbit on the table.

‘I believe I shall tidy this house up a little,’ Jeeves decided, glancing around at the dust and cobwebs. ‘It is the least we could do under the circumstances...’ He rose and began removing cobwebs with a rag draped over a broom handle. The task carried him to the adjoining rooms. He dusted the rooms as best he could and returned to the kitchen.

Mr Wooster called him to the table, where a gold fountain pen lay beside a sheet of stationary still wet with ink. ‘Here is your key, Jeeves. I think it’s my turn to have a go at this cleaning lark, what?’ He took the broom and rags from Jeeves' unresisting fingers. ‘You must tell me about the good old Bertie Wooster sometime, Jeeves.’ He added softly. ‘I miss the fellow.’

***

Jeeves spent the day decrypting Mr Wooster’s letters, marvelling at the extent and detail of the information he had managed to gather. The man was quite a brilliant spy, though Jeeves thought it best not to tell him so, lest it give him ideas.

Mr Wooster, meanwhile, swept the floors, brought in fresh water from the pump, and even cleaned out the larder, though Jeeves assisted him in disposing of the smellier foodstuffs. Jeeves couldn’t help staring at him from time to time. It was unspeakably odd to be sitting at his leisure while Mr Wooster kept house.

Jeeves was pensive as he prepared and served their supper of potatoes with sauerkraut (and haw jelly, if he could get Mr Wooster to try some). But he waited until they had eaten and were lighting up a pair of friendly after-dinner cigarettes before asking his questions.

‘What was the true reason for which you made these duplicates, sir?’ he began. ‘I assume you mailed the originals to prearranged addresses.’

Mr Wooster nodded, and winced. Manual labour was not suiting him at all. ‘Absolutely, old chap. These were merely for personal what-is-it. Reference, I mean. You know what my memory is like.’

Jeeves nodded, recalling the time Mr Wooster had set a flour trap, and walked right into it ten minutes later. Jeeves had nearly cracked a rib trying not to laugh on the way home. He looked up from flicking his ash onto a plate to find Mr Wooster looking much more at ease than he had all day. Jeeves had forgotten how well the man could read him.

‘What does “fort” in your letters refer to, sir? Operation Fortitude, perhaps?’

‘Right in one, old top.’

Jeeves waited for him to continue, but Mr Wooster did not elaborate.

‘What is Operation Fortitude, sir?’

‘Well, it’s... it’s a decoy, Jeeves, if that’s the word I want. Orders were to convince the Nazis we’re going to attack in Scandinavia and... some other place further south—a double attack, don’t you know. I’m just here to build a mare’s-nest ‘round Scandinavia.’

Jeeves said nothing.

‘I mean, I suppose we _could be_ gearing up for a double-attack and what-not.’ Mr Wooster elaborated after a nervous puff or two. ‘But we wouldn’t land in Scandinavia, or whatever other place they’re trumping up over in Whitehall. I was told to test the waters, so to speak, to see if the Jerries would swallow a double-attack story. We’d need to call in the Marines to pull off a real double-attack.’

Jeeves repeated himself.

‘That’s about all I know, Jeeves. I don’t even know what country in particular Whitehall wants to draw the Krauts to. They would smell a rat if I appeared to know too much. And you know me, I always get confused as to whom to say what to, what? It took me all of three months just to learn my part in this spying lark―’

‘Three months, sir?’

Mr Wooster shrugged sheepishly. ‘Rather. You probably learned it all in three minutes, standing on your head while juggling fruit, but―’

‘Sir, standard training is six months.’ Jeeves interrupted again, a sharp edge to his voice.

‘Oh. Well, it’s three now.’ Mr Wooster frowned. ‘And ...well, they don’t seem to care if you pass the training or not, really. Chief Wilson said he wouldn’t trust me to find my backside with both hands and a map, let alone find out what the enemy is up to.’

Jeeves sighed, leaning back in his chair. ‘I have heard that some of our best operatives had been declared by their instructors as “unfit to go into the field”. It is Miss Atkins—not the instructors—who has the final say.’ 2

‘That’s all right then,’ Mr Wooster said with a hesitant smile. ‘Were you given the six months, Jeeves?’

‘No, sir. I was trained during the Great War. But I was given a month to “get up to date”, as they say. How did you come to join the SOE, sir?’

‘Through Aunt Agatha. You know the old Stately ‘Omes of England gag? Steeple Bumpleigh is one of the Stately ‘Omes of E. the SOE trains at. After Mrs Fry, um...’

‘Yes, sir.’ Jeeves rose to poke at the fire.

‘Well, once her affairs were settled, I went back to Old Blighty to do my bit on the home front (since the Army and Navy still refuse to so much as look in my direction). That journey was an adventure all by itself. But no sooner am I off the 'plane from Denmark then the old dragon comes along and orders me to see to it that the nice young ladies and gentlemen at Steeple Bumpleigh have everything they need. What they needed, funnily enough, was a toff with business interests in Germany who was stupid and greedy enough to come in the middle of a war and attempt to do business with the enemy. I very nearly didn’t pull it off, you know. The Jerries at the Swiss border were just about to haul me off to a POW camp or some such place when I casually let drop that I had friends in Whitehall with pea-sized brains and loose tongues.’

‘I see,’ Jeeves murmured, suppressing a shudder at the thought of Mr Wooster being carted off to a Nazi camp. His eyes fell once again to the papers on the table. He picked up the pen and began drawing a relationship map of the people mentioned in the letters.

Mr Wooster watched him silently for a while. ‘You do believe me, don’t you, Jeeves?’

‘Yes, sir. I apologize for alarming you this morning, sir. Trust dies but mistrust blossoms.’3

‘Right-oh. It’s only... I mean, I, um...’

‘Sir?’

‘Please stop calling me “sir”, for heaven’s sake, Jeeves!’ Mr Wooster ran tired fingers through his hair. ‘You’re my senior in this game, you know. I should be calling you “Mr Jeeves”. Lord knows I’ve felt like it these past few days.’

Jeeves blinked owlishly at him. ‘And shall I call you Lord Yaxley?’

‘No, you bally well shan’t!’ Mr Wooster snapped, peeved. ‘Of all the blitheringness! I’ve told you it’s just a whatchamacallit.’

‘A _nom de guerre_ , sir?’

‘That’s the baby! The Nazis all seem to think one can’t throw a brick in England without beaning a lord.’

‘Indeed, sir. Shall I call you Wooster, then, as you call me Jeeves?’

Bertie grinned. ‘Good Heavens, no! “Wooster” is the signal for me to hare off like a fox with all the kings horses in hot pursuit.’

Jeeves gave his diagram a final once-over, and began twisting the sheets of used stationary into sticks for burning.

‘Bertie would do,’ Mr Wooster said quietly. ‘Or Bertram, if you prefer, though hardly anyone calls me that.’

‘And would you call me Reggie or Reginald, sir?’ Jeeves asked mildly.

Mr Wooster gave him a quick, nervous smile. ‘I don’t think you’d like that very much. Not even your mother called you that.’

‘I would not appreciate you calling me Laddie, either, si—’ Jeeves cleared his throat and tapped the carbon copies of Mr Wooster’s letters together. ‘Shall I burn these duplicates? It would be safer to travel without them.’

‘Well, you know best, Jeeves. But we might find more information on the way home and need to write it down. If we don’t have time to post another letter, we can burn the original and keep the copy as part of the manuscript. I have an envelope and a pitch letter for it as well, see?’ He pulled a large manila envelope from a side-pocket in his valise, and Jeeves read: To the Arthur Doyle Literary Agency, 64 Baker Street, London NW1 6XE.

Jeeves hesitated. ‘Isn’t this a trifle obvious as a ruse to smuggle information out of Germany?’ He swallowed the 'sir' with effort.

‘Certainly, Jeeves,’ Mr Wooster replied with a sly grin. ‘It’s so obvious that no spy worth his thimbleful of lemon juice would even consider it. And look at the wording of the thing. The author is obviously nothing more than a twittering git. I could take it right across the Swiss border with me.’

Jeeves leaned back pensively in his seat, twiddling a paper clip. ‘I believe there is a repro artist 4 in Leipzig who can make me a card that would identify me as an officer of the RSHA.  5 The false identity might serve as further protection on the journey.’

‘It would mean I’m already being watched.’ Bertie agreed.

Jeeves nodded, and then gave his fingers a puzzled glance. ‘Why were these papers held together with so many clips, sir?’

‘Oh, um, well, I put them in to help you think up a better plan to fish you out of the soup, Jeeves. The only plan I could think up on the spot was absolute tosh. I wish someone had told me where you were. I would have come prepared with fishing net and javelin at the ready―’

Jeeves leaned across the table and stopped him with a hand upon his arm. ‘Bertie, when an operative is captured, he or she disappears. The SOE doesn’t often learn of their capture until well after they are dead. These expeditions are not the romantic adventures that shilling shockers portray them to be. Rescue is usually _not_ at hand.’

Mr Wooster flushed hotly. ‘I’m well aware of that, Jeeves. I didn’t join this gig out of some romantic desire to joust with villains or match wits with madmen. I joined because I thought my country might find me useful.’

Jeeves withdrew his hand. ‘To judge by the quantity and importance of the intelligence you have gathered in these letters, you have proven yourself to be more useful than half the operatives in the SOE.’ He stopped, instantly regretting his praise, true though it was. But Mr Wooster’s face melted into a smile, and Jeeves couldn’t help but add, ‘What plan did you formulate to rescue me from the evil Generaloberst Lustigs?’

‘Only the conventional Hero’s Plan B I’m afraid, old top: Drug the villain and run away with the prize.’

‘How romantic,’ Jeeves murmured with the twitch of an eyebrow and the faintest of smiles.

Mr Wooster blushed. ‘But as you said, it doesn’t usually work out that way.’ He paused, frowning at a sudden thought. ‘Actually, I might just have killed the bleeder. The way he looked at you, like you were some bally insect he was taking to bits...’

Jeeves coughed quietly. ‘Where do you keep the Mickey Finn?’

‘In my wristwatch. It’s quite clever, I thought: looks like part of the mech―er―inner workings of the thing.’

‘Hm. Perhaps I should remove it and disguise it as a shirt-cuff button. You would have it more readily to hand should you require it.’

Mr Wooster grinned. ‘But I would need to be extra careful not to put my sleeve in the soup.’

 

 

1 Plubius Terentius: 'do what you can do when you can’t do what you would do.'

2 Vera Atkins (1908-2000), spymistress for the SOE during WWII. She was also the inspiration for Ian Fleming’s Miss Moneypenny.

3 Sophocles.

4 SOE reproduction artist, a forger of false documents.

5 The Reichssicherheitshauptamt was the Third Reich’s main security office.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this story Bertie is 38, Jeeves is 48. Presumably Bertie developed acting and other talents during the five years they had been separated by the war.


	8. Pounder and the Genie

Jeeves woke inexplicably anxious from a dream about bonfires on Guy Fawkes’ Night. He wondered for a moment what had worried him awake. The night was still and dark, and he could not smell a fire. But he could hear something like it: a low, distant roar. He went to the window and opened the shutters. The sound was louder now, and he recognized it, though he had never heard it so loudly before.

Behind him Bertie sat up abruptly in bed. He had also heard and recognized the sound. They waited in silence as the noise grew louder, and louder, and louder yet.

‘There must be hundreds of them!’ Bertie exclaimed. ‘Are they ours or theirs?’

‘Ours,’ Jeeves breathed. ‘They’re on course for Berlin.’ He stared at the blackness outside as the great whining roar passed high above their heads. ‘They could raze the city to the ground. I had hoped to spare you this.’ He couldn’t help but add reproachfully.

It was not long before they heard the bombs, a sound like cannon-fire on a distant hillside. Bertie frowned. ‘They’re awfully loud. Berlin must be twenty miles away!’

‘Perhaps they are blockbusters.’ Jeeves replied. It gave him a churlish satisfaction to hear the Nazis getting their own back for having decimated Brixton. He tried not to think of the common folk he had lived and worked with for the past five years: the good Germans who feared the Nazis even more than their enemies did.

‘It’s not cricket, this.’ Bertie muttered, hunching over his knees as the bombs continued to fall. ‘It’s not British.’

Jeeves hoped the RAF at least aimed for the munitions factories and not for the densely populated areas. He waited by the open window as his feet grew numb against the cold wood floor and his face prickled in the still night air. The bombing was followed by long minutes of velvety silence. Then they heard the low fiery roar returning. It crackled.

‘Listen!’ Bertie hissed. ‘They’re coming back! With the enemy at their tails.’

The crackling became a rat-tat-tat of gunfire. ‘Get out of bed!' Jeeves ordered. 'Stand here, in the doorway!’ The farmhouse walls were two feet thick and built of stone.

‘Of all the blithering ideas, Jeeves,’ Bertie grumbled, though he had obeyed without hesitation. Jeeves held up a finger, and Bertie fell silent. They listened as the fighters drew nearer. Then there was a long metallic scream and a ground-shaking crash.

‘What was that?!’ Bertie hissed.

‘A downed fighter. I estimate it fell about two hundred yards away.'

They waited, Bertie shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot. Jeeves stood stiff as a board not two inches away from him, to shield him should a flaming chunk of sharp metal fall from the sky. --Which one did some minutes later, crashing through the ceiling and landing at the foot of the bed. Jeeves watched it warily, waiting for it to burst into flame. But it only smoked gently. It looked like a large aluminium cribbage board, and was probably a stabilizer.

‘We must leave tomorrow at first light,’ he murmured, ‘if any of their downed pilots survived, they'll be looking for shelter. And the army will be out hunting for our downed pilots.’

‘Shouldn’t we lend them a hand? Our pilots, I mean.’

‘No, sir. The more we are the easier it will be for the Germans to find us. They are safer without us and us without them. We will have to leave the car as well,’ he added as an afterthought, ‘and avoid the roads.’

‘Alright, alright, but first things first, old horse. Where are we going to kip for the rest of the night?’

‘If you are amenable to the idea, I propose we spread blankets before the hearth and take our repose near the fire.’

Bertie proffered a weak smile. ‘Capital idea, as always, old bean.’

***

Neither Jeeves nor Bertie could return to Morpheus’ sweet embrace that night. After a fidgety quarter hour in front of the fire, Jeeves began tearing a sheet into long strips for bandages. Then he rose and packed the valises, stowing the items they would be leaving behind neatly in the wicker basket. He rejoined Bertie at the hearth and together they roasted the remaining potatoes, onions and parsnips for the journey.

‘Jeeves...’ Bertie whispered as the predawn silence settled heavily around them. ‘What do you think happened to the folks who lived here?’ He was staring up at an amateurish painting of the Last Supper on the wall beside the fireplace.

‘I do not know. That painting and other religious symbols have clearly been here for several decades—’

‘That’s not saying much. The one drop rule seems to apply here just as it does in America.’

They spoke in hushed tones, as if there were ghosts in the room listening.

‘The family did leave in a hurry,’ Jeeves murmured pensively, ‘but they had time to pack their bags and secure the house. A neighbour must have taken possession of the animals, yet the house was left unmolested. It does not appear as if the Nazis took this family, not from this farm.’

‘Well... then perhaps this area was evacuated for some reason, though it looks like the sort of place one would be evacuated _to_.’

Jeeves smiled in spite of himself. ‘There are three inhabited farms bordering this one. I have seen their lights and heard their livestock. But they fortunately appear not to have noticed our presence.’

‘Oh.’

The conversation petered out. Jeeves closed his eyes, basking in the heat of the flames. He knew he would miss it in the days to come.

They set out as soon as it was light enough to see the ground beneath their feet. Jeeves suggested they walk cross-country to Brandenburg an der Havel, and from there take a train to Leipzig. He had left the decrepit Wellingtons behind, deciding he could move more quickly on feet bandaged and cushioned with the remains of the hausfrau’s bed-sheets. He could not avoid wearing the Genearloberst's clothes, but Bertie had thoughtfully lent him his bottle of cologne, and Jeeves had made good use of it.

‘Perhaps I should ankle into town first and get you some togs and footjoy, Jeeves,’ Bertie suggested as they negotiated the seventh hedge on their trip. ‘To say nothing of a size-eleven.’

Jeeves gave him a long, mistrustful look that stopped Bertie cold.

‘Oh, come now, old bean, you can’t really be thinking I would leave you stranded in this God-forsak—’

‘Not at all, Bertie,’ Jeeves cut in mildly, ‘I was merely considering the items of apparel you might see fit to purchase on an expedition such as the one you describe.’

Bertie laughed. ‘You were thinking I’d be getting my own back for all those smashing suits of mine you’ve destroyed over the years, eh, Jeeves? Well, I can’t say it’s not a thought, old bean, but  _haute couture_ is a bit thin on the ground at the moment, what with the war and all.’

‘If I may inquire, sir, how many Reichsmark are you carrying upon your person at the moment?’

‘Lets see... Ouch,’ he added, nearly turning his heel on a loose stone. ‘I’ve got about eighty in the billfold, I believe, and a hundred each in the tie and brogues, and five h. in the lining of my coat. I suppose banks are out of the question on this trip?’

Jeeves was about to reply when Bertie added, ‘Oh, and there’s another jolly h. in my skivvies in case of extreme emergencies.’

‘Very good.’ Jeeves said, hiding his amusement in a polite cough. ‘Have you left any such remunerative clothing at your Berlin residence?

‘Do you think me a complete idiot, Jeeves? The ties and skivvies have ragged seams I can insert the bills into whilst wearing; and I’ve become rather attached to the coat and brogues.’

‘Pity,’ Jeeves murmured, giving the brogues a dirty look. Then he looked up again and stopped abruptly. 

They had reached a clump of trees, under which a downed pilot—possibly British—lay tangled in his parachute. Not tangled, Jeeves realized a moment later, but wrapped in it for warmth. His complexion was waxen, and he seemed to be asleep, or dead. If he was dead, they could do with another handgun.

Jeeves drew the .38 from the pocket of his coat and cautiously approached the body. But when he reached down to feel for a pulse the pilot grabbed him by the arm and yanked him to the ground, pressing a pistol to his chest.

The pilot was not quick enough, however, to keep Jeeves from hooking the .38 under his chin. He looked familiar...

‘Why, bless my bottom, it’s the Genie! Small world, what? Grant me a wish!’

‘Well met, Lieutenant.’ Jeeves murmured, rising to his feet with dignity. ‘Have you treed your aircraft again?’

‘Never mind me, what the hell happened to you, Reg? You look like the corpse of a Jew.’

‘You are as tactful as ever, Lieutenant, and remarkably even less intelligent than when last we met. Why are you taking your ease here when the merest cretin would have hit the ground running and not stopped till his legs gave out from under him?’

‘’S not my fault, Reg. The ground hit me back pretty hard. The ol’ pins gave out from the get-go. The right one’s broken clean in two,’ the pilot said with a grimace.

‘Is it, indeed?’ Jeeves asked, as if he didn’t believe a word of it. ‘Allow me to examine this break.’ He began tugging aside the parachute. ‘Behind me is Mr Bertram Wooster. Mr Wooster, this is Flight Lieutenant Richard Pound.’

The two exchanged curt nods, eyeing each other warily. Pound swore loudly when Jeeves felt his knee.

‘You are fortunate, Lieutenant, your knee is merely dislocated.’ The disdain in his voice was as palpable as if he had added _you sissy_. ‘Furthermore, the swelling of the surrounding areas has yet to reach the point beyond which it would be unfeasible to attempt realigning the joint.’

Pound turned even paler. ‘What?’

Jeeves unbuckled the pilot’s belt and slid it into his hands with practiced ease. ‘Bite this. Mr Wooster, would you kindly hold him still while I realign the joint?’

Bertie reluctantly complied. The pilot whimpered and muttered a string of obscenities from behind the belt. The obscenities became louder as Jeeves murmured. ‘Deep breath. One. Two. Three.’

Pound let lose a bloodcurdling scream of agony.

‘Not so loud, please, Lieutenant. We do not wish to be overheard.’ Jeeves took a few strips of linen from his valise; and Bertie found him two quite adequate sticks of wood for the splint. Then together he and Bertie hoisted the pilot to his feet. Jeeves unbuckled the parachute and carefully folded it back into its pack. The material might prove useful in the cold November nights.

‘’ _Tis not_ enough to help the feeble up, but to support him after.’ He declaimed cheerfully as the two spies continued on their way with the pilot hopping awkwardly between them. 

They had not travelled long, however, before it became clear that the pilot’s one working leg had been too aggravated by his botched landing to bear his weight for long.

‘I do not suppose you have a garrotting wire or a similar instrument useful for the cutting of wood about your person, Lieutenant?’

‘No, I don’t carry a fucking garrotting wire in my pocket, Reg!’ The pilot said indignantly. ‘Why? Did yours get stuck in some poor Jerry’s throat?’

‘What are you thinking, Jeeves?’ Bertie asked curiously.

‘I believe we would be capable of travelling at a much quicker pace if we built a stretcher for the Lieutenant and carried it between us, sir.’

Bertie seemed impressed by the idea. ‘You can cut wood with a garrotting wire?’

‘With the correct wire and due patience one may saw through a steel bar.’ Jeeves replied, regretting the loss of his piano wire, which he had kept hidden in his belt.

Bertie gave a nearby linden tree a speculative look. Then he removed one of his shoes and tugged the lace out of its holes. Jeeves watched in horrified fascination as Bertie teased a long waxed wire from the shoelace. Then the aristocrat pulled out his cigarette case and broke the embossed lid into two pieces. The embossed design became grooves around which a wire could be hooked and wound.

‘I’ve never used it.’ He said defensively, noticing Jeeves’ horror. ‘I can climb that tree over there, if you tell me how to saw the branches.’

The sun was high in the sky by the time the stretcher was completed.

‘I say!’ Bertie said indignantly, glancing up from the hand Jeeves was in the process of de-splintering. ‘What’s the big idea! Here we are slaving away so this dashed fly-boy can travel in comfort, and there the blighter is taking his beauty sleep!’

Pound woke at the sound of Bertie’s voice, but made no reply. Jeeves handed them each a cold baked potato and half-an-onion for lunch. They dared not risk lighting a fire.

‘What happened to your feet, Reg?’ Pound asked, by way of a conversational icebreaker. ‘Did the Krauts cut your toes off?’

‘No, Lieutenant.’

‘Oh? Why the bandages, then?’

‘It would be unwise to walk across rough terrain barefoot, Lieutenant.’

‘Jeysus.’ The pilot grumbled. ‘Isn’t it high time to replace that crusty old rod you’ve got up your arse, Reg? Why don’t you take mine?’ He added with a suggestive waggle of his eyebrows.

‘No thank you, Lieutenant.’ Jeeves replied, unfazed. ‘I favour sturdier and less knobbly specimens.’

‘How long have you two known each other?’ Bertie asked.

‘Oh, for ages,’ Pound replied airily. ‘We grew up together, back in good ol’ Brixton where men are men. We’re even in the same club, the Genie an’ me.’

Jeeves gave the pilot a warning look, which was ignored.

‘The Genie?’

‘Yip. Cause he walks like he’s made of smoke, see? And if you rub him the right way he’ll—Arg! Fuck, my leg!’

Jeeves happened to be sitting cross-legged near the pilot’s splinted knee, and at that moment a bandaged foot had shot out and given it a swift, discreet kick.

‘This club of yours, is it the Junior Ganymede?’ Bertie asked dubiously.

Pound shook his head and swallowed a bite of onion. ‘No, I mean the RAF, the  _other_

RAF—’

‘Enough, Lieutenant.’ Jeeves said sharply.

‘Hmmm?’ Pound returned innocently. ‘Well, we were Regulars, anyway. At the club, I mean. Regular Arse Fuuuuuck!’

Jeeves had placed a hand upon the pilot’s injured knee, and squeezed. ‘You may believe, Pounder, that a dislocated knee is excruciatingly painful.’ He said quietly. ‘But a broken knee is infinitely more so. Do you copy, officer?’

Pound nodded, eyes watering. Jeeves released his leg and they continued to eat in silence. Bertie seemed rather withdrawn, and Jeeves could not determine if this was due to the pilot's crude words, or Jeeves' admittedly ungentlemanly reaction to them.

They set off again after their meagre lunch. Bertie took the lead, perhaps so he would not have to look at the pilot. Pound alternated between bouts of sleep and long periods of staring up at Jeeves—often no further up than his flies.

They walked until the sun touched the horizon. Then Jeeves directed them as deeply into a nearby wood as they could manoeuvre with the stretcher. When they had found a more-or-less comfortable patch of ground among the roots and dead undergrowth, Jeeves made an impromptu sleeping bag for three from the parachute, and rescued their blankets from the stretcher.

‘The branches up there look pretty thick,’ Bertie said hopefully, ‘D’you think we’d be seen if we lit a fire?’

‘Yes,’ said Pound flatly.

‘Allow me to examine your leg, Lieutenant, while there is still a little light.’ Jeeves unwound the bandages without waiting for a reply and examined the knee from all angles. ‘As I suspected,’ he pronounced, ‘no major blood vessels have been damaged. I cannot determine how badly the ligaments have been torn, but we must hope for the best: I doubt we will manage to find a doctor willing to help us for a while yet.’

Pound opened his parachute emergency pack to supplement their frugal supper with dehydrated cheese, crackers, and chocolate. They risked a stealthy smoke, assuring each other that the pinpoints of light would not be visible beyond the wood. And the pilot barraged them with questions, all of which Jeeves deftly deflected.

Bertie said little, but settled himself in the middle of the makeshift sleeping bag as if  he had found the most comfortable bit of turf in the world, and intended to stay there until he grew roots. Jeeves smiled to himself as he and the pilot settled themselves to either side of him.

 


	9. The Good Germans

Jeeves was not surprised to be woken several hours later by the noise Pound was making as he dragged himself around to Jeeves’ side of the parachute.

‘’s been a long time, Genie,’ the pilot whispered, casually sliding a hand down Jeeves’ chest.

Jeeves stopped the questing hand before it reached his crotch. ‘Don’t,’ he whispered.

‘Why not? The other fella’s out like a light.’

‘I doubt it.’ Jeeves murmured. ‘No other except the bear makes so much noise as you blundering through the undergrowth, Lieutenant.’1

‘He seems like a heavy sleeper.’ Pound whispered dismissively. ‘When’s the last time someone gave you a good polish, Genie?’

‘Since when have you been capable of giving anything a good polish, Pounder?’ Jeeves returned without missing a beat. ‘Cock-burns are more your line of expertise.’

‘How about a blow, then?’ the pilot offered, undeterred.

‘You wish me to place my most delicate extremity between those teeth, Pounder?’ Jeeves murmured incredulously. ‘I am rather fond of my appendages, Lieutenant, and would much prefer to keep them intact.’

There was a soft snort in the darkness to Jeeves’ other side.

‘You know, lads at the club still brag about having had your prick in their mouths,’ the pilot whispered, ‘and I bet not half of ‘em have ever even laid eyes on you.’

‘Enough, Pounder. Can you not let a man sleep?’

Pound laughed softly. ‘Not if I can fuck him instead. ...I bet you miss how ol’ Spooner used to tie you to the—’

‘I said enough!’ Jeeves snarled. Witherspoon was the last person he wished to think about.

‘Why, what happened to Spooner?’

‘Nothing, curse you, go to sleep!’

Pound sat up like a Jack-in-the-box. ‘Did he chuck you?’ he hissed incredulously. ‘The only man you ever let near that angelic arse of yours and he chucked you?!’

Jeeves briefly considered punching the pilot. But rather than scrap in front of Bertie, he rose to his feet and slid off amongst the trees as far as he dared to in the dark. He found a sturdy old oak he liked the feel of, and curled up behind it, attempting without much success to regain his composure.

A short while later, someone tripped over a root and fell with an ‘oof!’ in front of him. He reached out automatically and helped Bertie to his knees.

‘Sorry, old top, I couldn’t help but overhear!’ Bertie babbled, clearly afraid Jeeves would punch him instead. ‘I was afraid I—we might lose you in here.’

Jeeves gave his arms a light squeeze and released him. Accepting the gesture as permission to stay, Bertie settled himself beside Jeeves and wrapped a blanket around their knees. He took his last cigarette from its case, and they shared it in silence.

‘Was Spoo—um, the fellow Pound mentioned, was he the one who was with you here in Germany, on your mission?’ Bertie couldn’t help but ask eventually. ‘I wondered if it was Wither—him you were with, I mean, or Allen, or that other fellow at the agency, wossname, the secretary or junior partner or what have you...’

Jeeves said nothing. He still struggled to keep his breath even.

A groping hand found Jeeves’ shoulder in the darkness and massaged it comfortingly. Jeeves took the hand between his own. The palm felt blistered and chafed.

‘I can’t imagine you... with someone, like Pound or the other fellow.’ Bertie said hesitantly. ‘You seemed so... above all that, before the war. Even that night...’ He stopped, afraid 'that night’ was meant to have been forgotten.

‘I was never with the Lieutenant; and we did not truly grow up together.’ Jeeves replied softly. ‘We merely attended the same club.’

‘Do you mean a real club, Jeeves, or is it a thingummy, a figure of speech?’

‘I refer to a club with premises and a charter. It is a secret club, however, difficult to find and difficult to join.’

‘Does Pound know it’s a secret club?’

Jeeves smiled in the dark. ‘Scotland Yard has known of it for twenty-three years, and have yet to find it. The Lieutenant’s remarks were made to shock you. He despises innocence.’

‘Innocence!’ Bertie huffed. ‘What is this innocence that I apparently give off like radiation?’

‘It is gentility, strength of character, and resilient cheerfulness.’ Jeeves replied gently, running his fingers over Bertie’s palm. ‘Innocence is like polished armour; it adorns and defends.’2

‘Indeed, Jeeves?’ Bertie muttered, exactly mimicking the dubious tone Jeeves had often employed as his valet. ‘I always thought innocence was a type of igno....ign—dashed stupidity, and more of a big red bull’s-eye than armour, I can tell you.’

‘But you are not ignorant, are you, Bertie?’ Jeeves asked mildly.

‘I... Do you still love him, Jeeves?’ Bertie whispered.

Jeeves didn’t answer. But that in itself was an answer.

‘Could you… ever love anyone else?’ The question was barely audible, hardly more than the motion of lips.

Again Jeeves said nothing. But after a moment he brought Bertie's fingers to his lips and kissed them.

Bertie’s breath hitched in his throat. He did not move or even breathe again until Jeeves had released his hand. Then, hesitantly, he felt for Jeeves’ cheek in the dark, stroking the light stubble there. Jeeves kissed the palm of his hand.

Bertie sighed and began to trace Jeeves’ lips with his fingertips, so Jeeves kissed them as well. And then Bertie was kissing him in the manner of a drowning man gulping for air.

Jeeves was surprised to discover that Bertie was no novice in the art of kissing. He was over-eager and a tad sloppy, but not at all uncertain as he twined tongues with Jeeves. And Jeeves soon managed to gentle him into long, slow kisses that seemed to melt Bertie against him.

Bertie continued melting until he had settled in a warm puddle against Jeeves' shoulder, sound asleep.

***

All night long I hear you calling, calling soft and low  
Seem to hear your footsteps falling everyplace I go  
Though the road between us stretches many a weary mile  
Somehow I forget that you're not with me yet when I think I see you smile

There's a long, long trail a-winding into the land of my dreams,  
Where the nightingales are singing, and a white moon beams.  
There's a long, long night of waiting until my dreams all come true,  
Till the day when I'll be going down that long, long trail with you.

‘Pretty number, Jeeves,’ Bertie added conversationally, as Jeeves blinked into the sliver of sunlight visible between the tree trunks. ‘Though a tad senti-whatsits. Rather more along the Countess Sidcup’s line than yours. Where did you learn it?’

‘I, sir?’

‘Mhm. You sang it back at the farm, when you were in fever. I’d never heard you sing before then. What were you dreaming about?’

Jeeves shivered and buried his nose in Bertie’s hair. ‘Home. Warmth. You.’ He whispered. ‘We should return to the Lieutenant,’ he added more loudly.

Bertie groaned as he stumbled to his feet. ‘Hard stuff, the ground, what? Cold, too.’

They found Pound awake when they returned to the parachute. He greeted them with enormous relief and a rather horrible affected cheeriness. Breakfast was eaten in uncomfortable silence, which fortunately dissipated as they resumed their journey.

‘So, Reg, what’s the plan for when we get to town? We can’t just stroll in as we are.’

‘I estimate we will reach the outskirts of the town in a little under an hour.’ Jeeves replied. ‘I suggest we hide at the next convenient location, and I proceed alone to procure proper clothing, lodgings and provisions. I will then return in a taxicab to transport you to the lodgings. In the meantime, Lieutenant, I suggest you try to make yourself look less like a pilot and more like a civilian who twisted his knee while out for a stroll.’

Bertie had opened his mouth to say that he would be the one going into town. But he closed it again when Jeeves listed all that must be done on the trip, and in perfect German.

‘What about your feet?’ Pound wanted to know. ‘You can’t totter about town trailing bandages like a mummy.’

‘How perspicacious of you to remind me, Lieutenant. You take a size thirteen in boots, do you not?’

***

None of the shops were open so early in the morning, but as Jeeves passed a tailor’s shop he noticed movement inside, so he stopped at the door and knocked. A few moments later an old man opened the door with a cheerful smile and said, ‘I’m afraid we’re not yet open for business, my good man, but if you have an order to drop—ah.’ He stopped, noticing the revolver in Jeeves’ hand.

‘May I come in, Herr Schneider?’ 3

‘Of course,’ the tailor replied in a rather more subdued voice, stepping slowly back into the shop. Jeeves locked the door behind them and stepped into the shadows provided by a group of mannequins.

‘I need a new suit, Herr Schneider, to be made at once. I can pay you handsomely for it.’

The tailor stared at him for a moment, then shook himself. ‘Ah, yes,’ he murmured, turning to peer at his cluttered counter. ‘Do you see my tape-measure about, my good man?’ After a moment of fruitless searching about the counter, the old tailor sighed, ‘Well, I always keep a spare one or two in this drawer here, if you will permit me?’

‘No, allow me!’

But the old tailor ignored him. His hand emerged from the drawer not with a tape measure, but with a small derringer pistol he clearly knew how to use. ‘There was a photograph of you in yesterday’s paper, Herr Chambellan.’

Jeeves raised both eyebrows in surprise.

‘Ja, the Nazis do not usually let it be known when a spy has escaped them. I take it they have a particularly nasty vengeance in mind for you. So you are fortunate that I do not approve of them. I doubt you are a man Saint Peter would allow through his pearly gates, but I see no reason why I should imperil my own soul by hastening your death upon the wishes of a bestial government.’ The tailor calmly pocketed the derringer and pulled out his tape measure. ‘Now, permit me to measure you for your suit.’

Jeeves lowered his revolver, confused. ‘First name your price,’ he said warily.

‘Forty to sixty marks is my usual price, Herr Chambellan, varying according to the quality of the cloth and the cut of the suit.’

‘Is there not a fee for the expedience of the order?’ Jeeves asked, surprised.

The tailor thought for a moment. ‘Ja. You must take dinner with my wife and I.’

Jeeves stared at him for a moment, feeling strangely as if he had walked into a fairy tale and was being tested, as the victims of fairy tales usually were.

‘You are very kind.’ He said carefully. ‘But I am travelling with companions. We have made other arrangements for dinner.’

‘They are invited as well.’ The tailor said, beginning to take Jeeves’ measurements.

‘I am afraid they will not be able to come. One of them is wounded and cannot walk.’

‘I did not know spies travelled in packs.’ The tailor muttered absently. He was not making note of any of the measurements, and seemed to be merely confirming the trickier measurements he had guessed by merely looking at Jeeves.

‘My two companions are not spies.’

‘Oh? Downed pilots, are they?’

‘One of them is, yes. The other is a foolish foreign aristocrat who thought himself safe here.’

‘We can fetch them in the Volkswagen.’ The tailor wound his tape around Jeeves’ waist. ‘You have been quite badly treated, my good man,’ he observed.

‘Why do you insist so?’ Jeeves wanted to know.

‘My niece Adele married an Englishman—no, I lie, a Scotsman. They are very particular about that. When you English declared war my wife and I were visiting Adele in Glasgow. Beastly place,’ he added absently, rolling and pocketing his measuring tape. ‘Her husband’s family assisted us in leaving the country, even though they had strongly opposed the match and were not on the best of terms with our Adele. I am returning the favour.’ Giving Jeeves one more sharp and expert look, he turned to run his fingers across the bolts of cloth standing in their narrow wooden slots.

‘Are you certain my companions and I are deserving of such a favour?’ Jeeves asked quietly. ‘You said yourself that I am not a good man.’

‘I did not say that.’ The tailor replied mildly. ‘In this world there are good men who do bad deeds and bad men who do good deeds. Though the number of bad or good deeds may be high, they cannot change the nature of the man. I can see which of the two you are, Herr Chambellan.’

‘Remarkable,’ Jeeves whispered, suddenly and pathetically close to tears. ‘I cannot.’

‘This one will suit you,’ the old tailor muttered as he pulled a bolt of cloth from its slot. ‘Gisela!’ he shouted over his shoulder, ‘we have three guests for dinner!’

***

It was late afternoon by the time Jeeves and Herr Schneider returned to the walled field in which Pound and Bertie had remained hidden. Bertie’s hair was on end, and his brogues and trousers muddy with pacing. Pound, having remained awake the night before worrying that he had been abandoned, had slept the day away and was only now slapping himself awake.

The old tailor had kept the shop locked all day, purportedly so that no other customer would come in and recognize Jeeves. The spy had prayed this was the case, and every time the phone rang or the door handle rattled he felt bile rise to his throat and each hair on his body stand on end in fear. The sweat of said fear was still drying on his skin when Bertie ran up to him, sputtering incoherent recriminations.

Jeeves cut him short by introducing the tailor. ‘Herr Schneider has offered us dinner and lodgings for tonight, as his guests.’ He explained. ‘His good wife was kind enough to purchase our provisions, as it appears that the German press has released my photograph and a reward for my capture.’ Herr Schneider had given him the day-old Das Reich to read as he waited in the shop. It had not improved his nerves.

The blood drained from Bertie’s face. His thoughts seemed to be jostling one another to reach his lips. ‘What if this is a trap?’ was the one that made it.

‘Necessity is the mother of taking chances, sir.’ Jeeves replied quietly.4

They managed eventually to fit themselves into the tailor’s little Volkswagen, the pilot’s splinted leg resting on Bertie’s lap. Bertie had insisted Jeeves sit in front. ‘You’re the only one who can commune with our Good Samaritan,’ he had pointed out. ‘Pound and I don’t have the lingo down yet.’

The tailor lived with his wife above the shop. The pilot had to hop the steep, narrow stairs and nearly fainted with pain when he reached the top. As they waited for him to recover, Jeeves noticed a photograph of a bright-eyed, light-haired youth in uniform upon the mantelpiece, with a lit candle in a glass beside it.

‘Your son is in the service, Herr Schneider?’

‘As he must.’ Replied the tailor with a sigh.

They found Frau Schneider in the kitchen, ladling mutton stew into bowls from a large pot in the middle of the table.

Pound’s buttocks had no sooner touched his chair than he attacked his stew as if he hadn’t eaten in weeks. Herr Schneider gave his wife an amused wink and began eating his own stew, forgoing for the sake of his greedy guest’s comfort any prayers or other formalities that might have preceded the meal.

Jeeves took a dainty bite of carrot. But as Bertie raised his fork to his lips, Jeeves slid a hand under the table and gave his knee a hard squeeze. Bertie lowered his fork untasted. He paled as he stared at Jeeves, who had just swallowed his own first bite.

The sharp old tailor caught this interaction and sighed. ‘Pick one,’ he said, reaching out to Bertie’s plate. Jeeves jabbed his fork at a bite of potato. Herr Schneider speared it and ate it.

The clueless pilot looked up from his empty bowl and sighed happily. ‘Damn, this is good!’ he exclaimed in English. Then he tried ‘Gut, ja?’

Frau Schneider laughed. ‘This is how I like to see a man eat!’ She said, heaping more stew into Pound’s bowl.

‘Did you serve during the Great War, Herr Schneider?’ Jeeves asked as Bertie hesitantly began to eat.

‘Ja.’ The tailor replied, simply and with finality. They ate in silence after that, Frau Schneider watching Jeeves and Bertie intently. It was the same penetrating stare she had given Jeeves when they had met earlier that day. Only now he could see her thinking—planning even. This made him nervous.

 

 

1 Mary Hunter Austin misquote.

2 Robert South

3 Inconsequentially, they are speaking in German. I put in ‘Herr’s and ‘Ja’s because I like how they sound :-)

4Mark Twain

 


End file.
